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PREFACE. 



The coiiimencemeiit of a new Volume of our Magazine appears 
to us a proper opportunity for taking a general review of our la- 
bours, their effects, and their tendency. We may truly say, and 
without fear of contradiction, that our Magazine has excited more 
attention, whether for praise or blame, than any Periodical which 
ever existed in this country ; and it may be worth while to ^say 
something about the cause which produced that notoriety; to state 
the principles which entitled us, as we think, justly, to the enco- 
miums, and exposed us, as we think, unjustly, to the abuse, which 
it has been our lot to meet. 

When we started, in ISIT, the party to which w« hare alfmys 
been attached was sadly in want of literary defenders. While the 
excitement of the war lasted, the paper pellets wherewitlr minis- 
ters were pelted, were of little moment ; for the nation was too 
deeply engaged to think seriously of such things. The ardent spi- 
rits were abroad ; and the stake played for was too deep to allow 
those who remained at home to be diverted from the game by any- 
thing less serious. When peace came .on, the reaction which men 
of sense anticipated — the change which Lord Castlereagh's phrase 
so admirably expressed — ^^ the transition from a state of war to a 
state of peace," — ^was productive of more domestic misery than 
was remembered for a long time in Engkpd. Thousands thrown 
out of employment — ^the usual ehannels eloped — ^no others as yet 
adequately opened — ^were of themselves sufficiently dreadful ; but 
when to them were added the dreadful seasons of 1816 and 1817, 
when die crops failed all through Europe, it is no wonder that an 
unparalleled degree of distress was the consequence. So dreadful 

were thase^ years, tt^t our readers may remember the doleful pro- 

a 



5 



BLACKWOOD'S " 

StiittburslJ \^ 

M A G A Z I N^E.^ 

VOL. XIX. 
JANUAKY-JUNE, 1826, 



WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH: 



T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON. 
1826. 



. «■ ■ * ■■ ■■ r * 



/9? 



K- 



BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE. 



• r 



No. CVIII. 



JANUARY, 1826. 



Vol. XIX. 



Preface, . • . . . - . , • . . < 1 

Letter from Major Spencer Moggridge, • • • . 1 

The Country Curate. Chaps. I., II., and III. The Poacher, 4 
Posthumous Letters of Charles Edwards, Esq. No. VL .IS 

Abjuration, 85 

Matilda; a Tale of the Day^ • . • • • • • S7 

• 

The Church op England, • 36 

Modern Comic Drama. Love's Victory; or. The ScAool for 

Pride, 46 

Mr M'Culloch's Irish Evidence, . • • • . • 55 

The Bloody Business, from Mansie Wauch's Autobiography, • 70 

Christmas Gifts, . . ; •" • 80 

1. Literary Souvenir ; or Cabinet of Poetry and Romance, 82 

2. The Amulet ; or Christian and Literary Remembrancer, 83 

3. Forget-me-Not, a Christmas and New Year's Present for 1826, 84 

4. Friendship's Offering; or, a Literary Album, . . 87 

MONTHLY REGISTER. 

Monthly List of New Publications, .93 

Appointments, Promotions, &c 99 

Births, Marriages, and Deaths, • • « . • • 102 



< i 



I 



I' 



I I 



EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 17, PRINCESS STBEB:^ EDINBUBGH ; 

AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON ; 
To tttiom Communications if oat paid) may le addressed* 

SOLD also by all THE BOOKSELLERS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. 



PRINTED BT JAMES BALLANTYNE Sl C0« EDINBURGH. 



, i 



SPEBDILY WILL BE PUBLISHED, 

BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH, 

I. 

In One Volume 8vo, 

PROSPECTUS 

OF 

A COURSE OF MORAL INQUIRY. 

By JOHN WILSON, 

PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY. OF EDINBURGH. 

« 

IT. 

THE LAST OF THE LAIRDS, 

OR, 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS 

OP 

MALACHI MAILINGS, ESQUIRE, 

OF AULDBIGOINGS. 

« What's the Laird doing, Jock r 

'< Doing! what should he be doing! but sitting on his ain louping-on stane 
and glowring frae him ?**— Sbge Sm^ingt of Jock the LaircTs Man, 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 
" ANNALS OF THE PARISH,'' " THE ENTAIL," ETC. 

III. 

In One Volume post Svo, 

THE EXPIATION. 

By the Author of " Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, ^* The 
Trials of Margaret Lyndsay," " The Foresters," etc. 

IV. 

In a few days, 

BLEGANTLY'fclKTED IN A POCKET VOLUME, 

' THE OMEN, 



Can such things be, 



And overcome us like a summer cloud, 
Without our special wonder ! 

Shakespeare. :« 



PREFACE. 



The commencement of a new Volume of our Magazine appears 
to us a proper opportunity for taking a general review of our la- 
bours, their effects, and their tendency. We may truly say, and 
without fear of contradiction, that our Magazine has excited more 
attention, whether for praise or blame, t)ian any Periodical which 
ever existed in this country ; and it may be worth while to ^say 
something about the cause which produced that notoriety; to state 
the principles which entitled us, as we think, justly, to the enco- 
miums, and exposed us, as we think, unjustly, to the abuse, which 
it has been our lot to meet. 

When we started, in 1817, the party to which we have always 
been attached was sadly in want of literary defenders. While the 
excitement of the war lasted, the paper pellets wherewith- minis- 
ters were pelted, were of little moment ; for the nation was too 
deeply engi^ed to think seriously of such things. The ardent spi- 
rits were abroad ; and the stake played for was too deep to allow 
those who remiuned at home to be diverted from the game by any- 
thing less serious. When peace came .on, the reaction which men 
of sense anticipated — the change which Lord Castlereagh's phrase 
so admirably expressed — ^^ the transition from a state of war to a 
state of peace,''-— was productive of more domestic misery than 
was remembered for a long time in Englmd. Thousands thrown 
out of employment — ^the usual channels closed — ^no others as yet 
adequately opened — ^were of themselves sufficiently dreadful ; but 
when to them were added the dreadful seasons of 1816 and 1817, 
when the crops failed all through Europe, it is no wonder that an 
unparalleled d^ree of distress was the consequence. So dreadful 
were these^ years, tlmt our readers may remember the doleful pro- 



ii . PREFACE. 

phedes uttered concerning the| change of our climate. The Quar- 
terly Review, — always the great depositary of all the alarms of the 
nation, the tocsin, which has been always as ready to sound the 
existence of dangers, not traceable to ministers, as it has been 
ready to deny any which its ill-minded opponents may have attri- 
buted to that quarter, — ^told us, in good set terms, that, we were 
deteriorating in our atmosphere ; that the fruits formerly borne in 
this country would never be borne there again ; that, as former ge- - 
Derations had lost the vineyards of their ancestors, so we were in 
the progress of losing, and our posterity would certainly lose, the 
orchards of our fathers ; and that, ere a hundred years elapsed, ap- 
ples and pears would be growing in hot-houses, as grapes are now ; 
while the only indigenous plants which would flourish in the open 
air would be sloes and blackberries ! ! 

Why do we here repeat this silly stuff? To show that a general 
panic had then seized on the minds of the best informed and best 
affected men in the country. The difBcultibs of all kinds, whether 
•f the heaven, or the earth, had visibly affected even those who 
w^e inclined to talk the boldest. Agricultural distresses previol- 
ed, actually to an alarming degree, and they were besides exagge- 
rated by those on whom they pressed. During the war, our agri- 
culturists in general had lived as if the high prices produced by 
that unnatural position of things would have lasted for ever — and 
when the time came when that state of things being altered, al- 
terations of prices, &c. came with it, they clamoured with as much 
indignation a6 if they had been actually robbed of some portion of 
l^operty to which they had an undoubted claim. The man who 
before the Bank restriction of 1797, and the operation of the Ber- 
lin and Milan Decrees, and our own Orders in Council, had a pro- 
perty of two hundred a-year, found it after these events increased 
to a rental of a thousand. When their operation ceased, he found . 
it getting down again, to eight hundred, six hundred, four hun- 
dred. As Birkbeck said, it was not easy to descend. Many, like 
that Friend of Operatives, forgot that though they were descending^ 
atill the minimvm to which they sunk was higher than the maxi-- 
mum from which they rose. Some landlords clung to the war 
prices, and thereby inflicted much misery and wretchedness on 
their tenants, and eventual ruin on themselves. All this found its 
own level — ^we knew it should ; but in the intervening time, du- 
ring the operation of coming to rights again, a period which the 

hard-hearted school of Political Economists never take into calcu- 
li 



PREFACE. iji 

latum at all — it is not to be denied that the distress occasionally 
^nched severely enough. 

The manufecturing classes, no doubt, did not suffer so much as 
thaagricultural ; but when the latter great body suffers, it must 
<ltie vblt by all classes in the nation. The solid commercial inte^ 
rests sujETered least— ;-the houses of straw were of course shaken 
4own by the whirlwind. The sudden opening of so many mar- 
kets was, as we see now, productive of permanent advantage; bjat 
then, (we are still speaking of 1816 and 1817,) by giving scope for 
scheming and injudicious speculation, they produced also much 
loss and injury. That has passed away ; at the time, the instances 
of loss and failure were thought more about, because they made 
more noise, than the slow and steady returns of successful com- 
merce. In short, he who will cast back his eyes on the period to 
-which we have been referring, will find, that look what way he ^ 
]^eases, he can discover little to cheer him. And besides the ge- *^ 
neral calamity of that time, there were many local causes of dis- ^ 
tress, as, for instance, a typhus fever which ravaged half Ireland ^ 
like a plague— and many other things which it would be tedious ^ 
to insist upon. ^ 

How the Opposition behaved during the pelting of this pitiless ^ 
stom:^ is now matter of history ; and the most disgraceful chapter ^ 
4jt their portion in it. We might forgive their cavillings in the war, ^ 
for war is proverbially a matter of chance and change, which may ^ 
puzzle the wisest, and baulk the most experienced calculator. What ^ 
matter to us, after all, was it that they told.ius that the French " 
were invincible, when we knew that we conquered them every time *" 
they dared to look upon the bristling of our bayonets ? Why need * 
we have troubled ourselves, because a silly fellow, who knew no^ f 
thing of war, proved, to the satisfaction of the hui^y benches of ' 
Opposition, that Lord Wellington would have been pushed from 
the heights of Torres Yedras head foremost into the sea, when we 
were quite sure that he should succeed in beating the French out 
of the Peninsula? These were mere nonsense, nothing mor^y-just 
such nonsense as Charles Fox vomited, when he declared that the 
' Crusaders were notmore absurd in their speculations than tibe Bri- 
tish nation, when it fancied that its banners would float over the 
walls of Paris — ^mere putid and idiotic trash, supported on no just I 
grounds of military or political information ; defended by no data, 
except the narrow ignorance, or the wide impudence, of the 
speaker. But it did no harm. The country had warmed to tlie 

Vol. XIX. 6 



_ :iy PREFACE. 

yfvxs and their ravings were in vain. We kiiew that we were 
lords of the sea — ^We felt that the never beaten infantry of England, 
BsA her buoyant though untried cavalry, would not, when put to 
the proof, be found of different materials 'frpm the men who bad 
seen the Union Jack flying over the prostrate navies of FrAce^ 
Spain, Holland, and D^imark — we felt, as the old song has i<^ 
in its wiooath, but spirit^tirring measure, that- 

" We were the sons of the raain^ 

Who had conquer'd on Cressy plain ; 
And what our fathers did once^ 

* The sons could do again." 

Against this feeling it was in vain to talk ; and the Opposition 
talked foolishly to no purpose, but to display their folly. 

'. They had their revenge on us at the commencement of peace, 
and tihey were determined not to let the opportunity slip. Their 
character as prophets in the war liad gone — ^they were, as the 
ii^uATterly Review (t. 6. we believe, John Wilson Croker) wittily 
jsaidf ilot merely * fMtruf mm^h, but were fuirmt mmmi* An oppcnrtu- 
Btty now presented itself for them to redeem their character. The 
oonntry was confessecUy in difKeulty— -we might say, in distress. 
They had all along said, that ihe war was ruinous. How easy then 
(it was to connect the two propositions. ^^ A ruinous war — we said 
it was rninou8-has brought di«tre«s-we said it must bring dis- 
tress." Such) reduced to few wwrds, was the Opposition reasour 
Ing. They kept out of sight that the ruin they prognosticated wus 
milUary ruin, and the distress they had predicted was the distress 
of defeat and subjugation. They kept out of sight that we had at 
ali times admitted what we know to be borne out by the ree<M:ds 
of history^ and the suggestions of common sense,.tbat peace, und^ 
such circumstances, was not to be expected immediately to be fol- 
lowed by its proverbial attendant, plenty. This was, of course, con- 
sistent with the usual conduct of the party. At the time, the ar- 
.goment was irresistible with the mob, who really feeling the dis- 
^tness, were naturally impatient under it, and anxious to turn, as 
deqierate and foolish people will turn, to the first quack, who with 
jBHise and impudence quantum suiF. professes to have a nostrum 
te cure the affliction complained of. 



* Not merely prophets of evil, hut evil prophets. We beg no pardon for suh^ 
joining the translation, for everybody is riot bound to know Greek. 



PREFACE. Jr 

How often during that time did we not hear that the ooiintry ^ 
wft8 ruined by Ministers, and that the ruin would not have ha;p^ 
pened had we. been managed by the Whigs ! The statesman, the ^ 
philosopher, the competent reader of history, knew the folly and 
fdsi^ood of this assertion ; but it is needless to say that these peo- 
ple db not constitute the crowd. To men the very reverse of these 
characters the Opposition addressed themselves. There was not 
a piece of vulgar prejudice or ignorance, which they did not stoop 
to flatter, nor a cry against Government, no matter how raised, or 
how contradictory to their oWn avowed opinions, that they did not 
swell to the full compass of their lungs. This is the reason why 
we said that their conduct during the interval which immediately 
succeeded the peace of 1815, was more disgraceful to them than 
any other chapter in their unfortunate history. Men of true pa- 
triotism, at such a period, would have stepped forward to assist 
their distressed country — they would have given party-questions, 
and party-feelings to the winds, and made common cause with 
those whose endeavours were directed to advance our endangered 
interests ; but the Opposition are not men of true patriotism, and 
they exerted all their eneigies, and devoted all their time and all 
their talents to embroil, to distract, and to paralyze. They have 
got their reward— -they got what they looked for, the temporary 
and foolish huzzas of a mob-— and they lost, what a little reflectioii 
must have convinced them they must lose, if not heated by low 
and spiteful passions, the good opinion of the Friends of the Coun^* 
try ; who, after all, are the vast and overwhelming body of the po* 
palation. They sold themselves to the devil of mob- favour, and re- 
velled for a short time in the transient prosperity which he could 
bestow, with the certain fate of being destined to the everlasting 
doom of contempt and degradation in which they are now inextri- 
cably seated. 

The engines used to carry on this unholy war against their 
country was of every kind. Parliament — Spaiield meetings — ^Man- 
chester arrays — Guildhall Courts, &c. In the first of these, Par- 
liaments, they were not eminently successful. The only measure 
of actual annoyance worth speaking about that they carried there^ 
was the premature repeal of the income-tax — a measure which, be- 
yond question, tended more than any other of their pieces of tac- 
ticsy to delay the return of prosperity. In the mobs they were 
speedily defeated by agents whom they had not expected — the Ra*^ 
dicals. The experience of the French Revolution might have 
taught them, without looking very far back, that the mob does hot 



^ PREFACE. 

cati6,about half-^measure men. Hunt, Wooller, Waddingtan, This- 
tleirdod^ Waithman, soon got possession of the tribunes, to tlie ex- 
clusibn even of Broi^am, who went farther than any of his col- 
leagues to vie with them. But in return for this, the Whigs kept 
possession of a power which the Radicals X^ould not attempt to 
seize — the Press. Cobbett alone of theT Radicals had any mastery 
over that, and in spite of his unquestionable talents, his personal 
conduct has made him powerless. He is not to be depended on 
by any party, and of course was of no use. 

We are afraid that our readers will think this a tedious and 
perhaps disproportioned introduction to our remarks upon our Ma- 
gaadne ; but we could not avoid giving a detail of the posture of 
things with respect to the great parties of the State when we 
started. Briefly then, in consequence of all the events which we 
have above glanced at, the Whigs in 1817 had the influential part 
of the Ptess to themselves. We do not mean to undervalue that 
admirable work, the Quarterly Review, or the other periodicals or 
newspapers existing at that period, on the honourable side of the 
question ; but we must again repeat, that their spirit was subdued 
by the surrounding events. The anti-ministerial newspapers far 
out-numbered the ministerial — ^the voice of the Edinburgh Review 
was omnipotent — ^and if we looked among the monthly publican 
tions, we do not remember any that effectuidly supported our cause* 
Sir Richard Phillips's Magazine was at the head of all the Maga- 
aines, and was a regular deposit for all kinds of reviling, hatred^ 
Hudice, falsehood, and evidence against all the valuable institu- 
tions, and the respectable men in the country. The Examiner 
was the only readable Sunday paper, and there is no need to de- 
signate its contents under any other title than the general one of 
munixed infemy. 

The Monthly Review, a work, however, not at all to be con- 
founded at any time with the labours of the Hunts, or Peter Fin- 
Berty8,'or Phillipses^ or Richards, or such rabble, was the only Re- 
view beside the tWQ great quarterly organs of party; and that, al- 
though never insultingly or disgustingly 6pposed to the institutions 
or prosperity of the country, was yet Socinian in its religious tenets, 
and Whig decidedly in its politics. Of the Morning Papers in Lon- 
don, the Times, as usual, fell in with the popular cry ; and having 
about that time fallen into its present management, was conducted 
with the same disregard to truth and decency as it is at present. 
P«rry, or Pirie, or whatever his name Was, laboured fiercely away 
in his vocation in the Chronicle ; and at that time the Opposition 



PREFACE. yU 

leaders contributed to its support There was no Morning Paper 
but one, the New Times, on the ministerial side. Of the Evening Pa» 
persj the Courier is the only one which we remember, and that, 
though unquestionably conducted, as it still is, with great talent and 
knowledge of the world, was frequently borne down by the pre- 
vailing clamour got up on so many sides against it. Of the Pro«> 
vincial Papers, it is only waste of time to speak. Yet we may add) 
that, in the years to which we refer, the great and overbalan<ang 
proportion of them was as decidedly Whig as it is now Tory. 

In what manner the Whig writers, in this their unquestioned 
day of triuti^ph, behaved, is now by that party most studiously 
kept out of sight. To hear them talking at present, one would 
imagine that they were th^ meekest people that ever handled a pen. 
We have occasionally begged leave to jog their slumbering memo- 
ries. We assert, and without fear of contradiction, that we could 
produce a bundle of more unfounded and base calumnies from the 
pe^es of the Edinburgh Review than could be paralleled in the 
annals of civilized literature. We have not room, nor is it wortib 
while, to extract any quantity of them; but we refer our readers, 
curious in slander, to their treatment of Wordsworth, Southey^ 
Coleridge, Dermody, Barnes, Phillpotts, Davison, Copptestone, 
Falconer, Byron, (till he tamed them,) Hogg, Montgomery, evexk 
that poor creature Thelwall, or Thomas Moore, their present com-^ 
panion ; and we venture to say, that they will find there has not 
been a mode of annoyance which could present itself to a spitdFul 
and arrogant mind that has not been resorted to. They will 
find that in reviewing a literary work, contemptible allusions have 
been made to a man's habits in private life — ^to his trade, or his 
fiitBer's trade — ^to the means by which he rose in society — ^to his 
personal appearance — to his poverty — to his family, his mother, 
or sisters, or wife — to things with which, in short, the public have 
nothing to do, and which have no conne^don with the work re- 
viewed further than they tend to insult its author. They will find 
one gentleman accused of perjury, another of theft, another of 
drunkenness, a fourth of pandarism, and so on ; and all this arising 
out of party hatred. We pass by their political attacks on men 
of public character, such as the Duke of Wellington ; for we are 
not willing to set too narrow bounds to political, controversy, and 
public men are more or less exposed by their very situation. Even 
this, however, can be carried too far ; as, for instance, the mean 
wretch that reviewed James Hogg's Jacobite Relics, insinu^ 



^ PREFACE. 

«led ti chal^ of bastardy against George III. ; but such animals 
are below a man's contempt. Nor shall we be very angry with 
their attacks on the dead, for the most atrocious that we can re- 
collect Was that on Dean Swift. We completely pardon ikat — 
fi»r had not Swift been dead, and thoroughly dead, it would not 
have been ventured upon. Woe to the luckless critic had the 
unsparing Irishman been allowed one day's revivification, to have 
gibbetted him to everlasting contempt and derision ? 

Such being the conduct of the decentest and most powerful of 
the Whig periodicals, it would be a gratuitous dabbling in the dirt 
to inquire into the behaviour of the lower orders. Yet it actually 
amuses us now<-a*days, to take up a volume of the Examiner, before 
we blighted its scribblers for ever, and to revel, as it were, in the 
flowers of Billingsgate which that impertinent paper produced at 
the time. There is nothing equal to it in furious personality on all 
classes, froiti the King to the poor player* Stories picked up at 
third hand from the servants with whom its writers associated«-»or 
the candle-snuffers of the theatres — or the second-rate reporters*-* 
or the unfortunate women of the oyster-shops — ^were made matter of 
grave and insolent accusation against the most illustrious, as ivell 
as the most obscure characters. Allusions the most indecent, in 
the most prurient language, (always the besetting sin of the Cock- 
ney school,) nauseate you in every number. But peace be to its 
ashes ! We should not have disturbed them, were it not necessary 
for us to give a slight sketch of the composition of the cleverest 
Whig paper of the day. 

But there is no reason for passing by the labours of Mr Thomas 
Moore. To hiin we were indebted for that highly respectable and 
moral poem, The Fudge Family in Paris. We remember talking 
to a Whig gentlemian, when this work was in the full blaze of 
popularity, and expressing our disapprobation. <' I do not Wonder 
at ite vexing yon," said he ;" it is a powerful work, which will 
not iocm be forgotten, I assure you«" ^^ Forgotten !" said we ; 
<' no» in truth ; it shaA not be forgotten as long as the Whig party 
has ejdstence." Now, when we consider the slanders on men and 
women — the filthy insinuations, the indecent allusions of that 

>rk — and couple them with the manner in which it is past ques- 

1 the information which gave them piquancy was obtained, it 
t too much to say, that a book more disgraceful to a writer 
of high literary reputation does not exist — always with the excejf^ 
tion of the Twopenny Post-boff, 



JfKiiJeACIfi. jji 

In tbiB tttate of affiftir^i we thought we saw an opening, and loada 
a trial whether the noisy bullying of the weaker parly had altoge^ 
ther damped the hearts of the great Tory majority. We saw that 
it was not to be done by cringing or conciliating, by humbly sub- 
mitting that there was some defect in th^ views of Oppositioni 
though ready to admit the high honour, the great integrity, the 
undoubted talents of every individual member in it. We felt that 
in the literary part of the warfare the thing would never answer 
if we were to allow great genius and pr<^ound erudition to people* 
who possessed neither, simply because they happened to be enr 
g^iged in abusing our friends. We saw that we shpuld not evei^ 
allow the clever men of the opposite party to hedge themselves 
under their general character, and, under that cover, vent fidser 
hoods and calumnies to injure us. No I We ffilt oa|ivinced that 
a want of coui^Bge was the complaint. We perceived that the 
quarrel was not to be fought out ^^ with wpnutfiisli upliftiiig of 
die palm,'' with acknowledgments of the great genius, powerful 
intellect, and honourable intentions of om* antagonists. We k9cn¥ 
these gentry too well to suspect them, except in few» very feWfinr 
stances, of any great claims to the two former causes of resfoet 
— intimately were we convinced that we might search the party ' 
throughout without convicting one among them of any title .to the 
last. We knew also that the Pluckless of our party had been in 
the habit of adulating our enemies out of innate cowardice— out 
of a conviction of their own feebleness, and a dread of the sup^ 
ricnr abilities, such as they were, of the scribes of Whiggery. j^apr 
different were our feelings. We were determined to expose heir 
low pretensions without mercy, and to say in public what .the 
more courageous of our party had always said in private. 

We knew our own strength, nor had we overrated it. In our in- 
most hearts, we despised the ignorance and arrogance of the dorni- 
neering faction, and we proclaimed war against them in the per* 
feet confidence of speedy success. On the opening.. of the cam- 
paign, the Whigs pretended to hold our raw troops cheap ; but a 
few skirmishes were sufficient to daunt the spirit of their veteran 
but impotent battalions ; and their leaders soon showed, by their 
altered system of tactics, that they feared a fatal overthrow. Stifl 
there was a mighty sound of trumpets — much bravadoing*-and 
even apparent offers of battle. It was hinted abroad by the cowed 
army, iJbat we did not fight according to the spirit and rules of 
modern and civilized warfare. Bah !- We took their artillery, and 



y^. PREFACE. 

for a few engi^einents, turned it against themselves ; but we had 
a fine park of our own, and with it^finally, we won all our vie* 
tories. ' 

One sueh sounding paragraph as the above may be forgiven in 
a twentyrpage preface. The real meaning of it we take to be this 
— ^ihat we Toriies beat the Whigs in argument all to sticks, and 
that idl the world acknowledged it. The secret of our power lay in 
these four words, " We wrote like Britons" — we loved, we glo- 
ried in our native country. To us all her time-hallowed institu- 
tions were most dear — dear the dust from which our feet brought 
the sound of liberty. We were above all that sneaking and sniyel- 
ling patrioHsTn^ that lives but in disinterring the bones of some 
old buried abuse. Our national blessings were bright and benig* 
na&t as the Irtars in heaven ; and we rejoiced — ^not to count them, 
for that was impossible — ^but to gaze on them with gratitude to 
the Giver ! Whenever we beheld a Whig, or a Radical, with a 
long, sour, vinegar aspect, weeping, i^ly as Sin, over the miseries 
of human life in Great Britain, we fixed him, as by a talisman, in , 
the most ridiculous of all his possible attitudes, and showed him 
up as a Fool. We b]K)ught forth against him shouts, and peals, and 
guffiiws of laughter ; from every comer and every cranny 

" Redoubled and redoubled a wild scene 
Of mirth and jocund din." 

Why these sardonic wits, who had so ruled the roast for a quar- 
ter of a century, that they would have stuck the spit into any one 
who had dared to say, " black was the white of their eye," were 
fittruck all of a heap by our roaring laughter ; and then gathering 
up their legs, set off in qowardly discomfiture, like so many old 
women at the shadow of Satan. Wits indeed ! Whig Wits ! We 
defy you to utter that conjunction of words now in any room cmp ve- 
hicle in Great Britain or Ireland, without every face being graced 
witfar a grin.. We declared, that the disease of the Whigs was an 
inveterate and incurable stupidity; and although many people 
could not bring themselves to believe that such a disease was mor- 
tal, they acknowledged their error when they saw the Party lying 
dead, and found themselves, as subscribers to this Magazine, ac- 
tually walking in the funeral procession. 

Our first JS^umbers were received with astonishment and indigna- 
tion. What ! the great Jeffrey declared a paltry and shallow critic ! 
The ^^cellent Brougham a political adventurer without principle ! 



PREFACE. xi 

Tb pldloso^cal Play&ir aecused of almost deism ! The learn- 
ed Leslie convicted of ignorance ! It was imendnrable, and a da*- 
mour immediately of perscmality, insolence, impertinence, assassi- 
nation, with many other crimes of similar atrocity, was showered 
upon us. The loudest lamentation came, as usual, from the lower 
orders. The Magnates of Whi^sm ate their leek in silence. They 
despised us, forsooth. The poorer creatures of the pack could not 
afford this. The iron had entered their souls, and they howled and 
wept under the infliction with the hideous yet comical contortions 
of a suffering baboon. It may be easier to allude in some detail 
to ihe controversies in which we have engaged, than to continue 
these general remarks. Let not the reader be frightened — we shall 
not delay him long* 

L The first charge of personality brought against iks came from 
the Edinburgh Whigs. Disliking the general cause of Whi^sm 
very much, we cannot, however, do it the injustice of confounding 
it with the party here. The Whigs of the Empire aim at turning 
90t the King's ministers, and unsettling the fate of nations — the 
glorious ambition of the Whigs of Edinburgh extends no farther 
than the caballing against a Dean of Guild, or effecting a radical 
reform in the mode of paving and lighting the Cowgate. It is a 
gl<ndU)us night for the Whigs of the empire, when they carry a mo- 
turn in Parliament — sl night equally glorious for the Whigs of 
Edinburgh, is one on wliich they can get drunk on bad wine in ho- 
nour of a stray lawyer, or an uneducated rector. The Whigs of 
the empire write state-papers, protests, resolutions. The Edin- 
burgh Whig thinks he has done a feat equally important to the 
world, if he has written a paragraph in an unread newspaper, or 
eontiibuted to render the dullness of a stupid review still more 
leaden. And then on the strength of these important feats, these 
very paltry people hold themselves entitled to speak with insolence 
of the great leaders of church and state. We have heard a poor 
writer to the signet, whose whole practice would have been over- 
paid at a hundred a year, being in all probability about twice the 
value of his sweats-worth, declaring with a look of assinine indig- 
nation that Lord Eldon, to whose sub-deputy-secretary's clerk he 
would not have been qualified to be clerk, was no lawyer ; and 
that it was allowed by all thinking men, in particular the great 
dub that met at the Sign pf the Cat and Bagpipes, and of which 
he had the honour occasionalLy to be president, that Mr Canning 
WBB no sound oratoi*. We have heard Bloomfield of Chester pro- 
nounced no scholar, by people who knew no language on the face 

Vol. XIX. e 



5cii PREFACE. 

of the eartb, except a corrupt patois of Scotch and Englishr^*^ 
and been assured that Magee, of Dublin, was a poor theolo^an, 
by a ragged collegian of two years' standing. The vanity and 
conceit of these creatures had, by congr^ating together, swelled 
to an enormous degree. There was nothing that they could not 
do. One person would write a universal history — ^another, a di- 
gest of all the laws of all the nations in the world, in a six shilling 
review. The Whigs of the empire are, of course, by being men 
of the world, free from these follies. But when Whiggery was 
engrafted upon provincialism the results were truly ridiculous. 

Nor was it, perhaps — we say perhaps, for we are not quite sure 
— worth our while to extinguish these fellows. It might have ap- 
peared to our friends in England absurd to have taken the trouble ; 
but it should be recollected that we were in actual contact with 
them, and could not always curb our propensity to laugh at the 
jackdaws about us. Having resolved to do so— and Heaven 
knows it was all gaiete de ceeur — ^how were we to effect our task? 
Laughing at them by name would have been quite useless ; for 
who coidd know anything of John Douglas, or Sawney M 'Guffog, 
or Jock Mucklewraith ? In two or three jocular articles, there- 
fore, when we had to allude to these absurd and unknown crea- 
tures, we had to describe them by their ridiculous attributes. . 
Loud was their clamour against our personality-^grievous their 
threats of vengeance. But peace be with them ! They may rest 
quite satisfied that we annoy them no more. The elder ones 
among them are effete— the younger do not afford any indiea- 
tions of talent sufficient to disturb the serenity of a conclave of old 
tea<^rinkers in the seventh flat. 

So far for our quarrel with the Edinburgh Whigs. It has 
ceased these five years. If any person hear any abuse of us on 
7%t5 account, we request him to turn to our earliest Volumes, 
where jbe^dll find the Chaldee M.S. — the Horse Scandicse and Sini- 
C8B— tii^ rllgrimage to the Kirk of Shotts, — and la few more pa- 
pers of a similar character. We leave it to himself, if he bea man 
of the smallest discernment, whether these jetix-^T esprit would 
have produced anything beyond a smile from any but the victdins 
of inordinate vanity, or a party determined, right or wrong, £o^put 
us down. Yet these papers were held up as crying- sins. G^ne 
of these, the Chaldee MS., exposed us to the charge of blasph^y 
from the party which at the very time was subseriUng to Hone. 

II. Connected in some measure with the above subject were our 
sU'ietures on Professor Play fair. Him, indeed, we do not mean 



PREFACE. xiii 

4o oom|Mtre with the rabble to whom we have been just now allu- 
^ng* He was a man of respectable powers, and considerable ac- 
quirements, and wrote in a clear, lucid style, and arrangement* 
This last was, after all, his greatest praise. That he was over- 
puffed in his own coteries, there is no one who will not now ad- 
mit. But we are not going to draw his frailties from their drear 
abode — ^we only wish to defend our own conduct. That gentleman 
made use of the influence his talents and acquirements had pro- 
cured for him, in spreading tenets which we believed to be most 
dangerous. Now, we do not mean to deny that a very honest and 
worthy man may be sceptical in religion — ^but -we do meap to 
.deny, that any man. Deist, Christian, or Mahometan, can be bo- 
nest if he shrinks from his principles. 

Of all characters, the meanest is he who is willing to wound, 
and yet afraid to strike. This was said at the time — ^this we say 
again after a lapse of seven years. We could not bear to see Play- 
&ir and his faction attacking Southey (a man so far his superior 
in genius and erudition, and surely at least his equal in virtue) for 
being an apostate, and yet keep silent on the fact that Playfair him- 
self had been in orders, and yet had become one of the scoffers. We 
never shall cease to think that a man, who, by his continuance in 
his professorial chair, avowed himself a Christian, and yet in his 
writings, by sneaking inuendoes, advocated principles hostile to 
Christiamty, was not a high-minded man. In days of persecution, 
when life and death are at stake, it may be conceded to the weak- 
ness of human nature, that we should be allowed to dissemble ; but 
for doing so, because we thereby gain a lucrative employment, there 
can be no defence set up. This was the full amount, and perhaps 
more than the full amount (for the party lied against us in their 
fury) of what we said about Mr Playfair, and it called forth a great 
deal of whining on the score of insulting venerable age, from the 
men' who at that very moment were taunting the years and afflic- 
tions of George III., and are now with falsities and lioi insulting 

the imdimmed decline of Lord Eldon.* 

■I II ■■ ■■ It'll II- 

. , ^W^e have heard that some remarks on Dr Chalmers a couple of years ago have 
roused some anger against us. It is not worth discussing in the text. Dr Chal- 
m^s^ in a paper in the Edinburgh Review^ had^ with a view to vilify the in- 
stitutions of England^ asserted the monstrous physical absurdity that nine-tenths 
of the people of England were paupers, supported^by the*otber tenths which he 
proved by the arithmetical absurdity^ that 990^000 was nine-tenths of tra mil- 
lions. The motive was bad^ the means ridiculous. So we think still; but 
should nevertheless be very sorry to forget the merits of Dr Chalmers in his own 
profession. He has lately — thanks to us— avoided politics. 



Xiv PREFACE. 

Ill* The only time we appeared m conrt was for a libel on Pro^ 
feasor Leslie. The law-papers, cleared of their teehnicalities, sie^ 
eused us of saying, that Professor Leslie was %norant of Hebrew 
"i— bad not made some discoveries in freezing which he claimed-^- 
and had corrupted the youth of IBdinburgh by teaching them bad 
principles. There were other trifles besides, to which we shall by 
and by advert. Now, of these accusations, the last only we should 
consider a libel. If any man told us that we could neither read not 
write, we should only laugh, for our moral character- could not be 
injured even by that gross ignorance ; if he charged us with being 
rogues, we should then begin to think if it came from a quarter 
worth answering, and deal accordingly. It therefore gave us great 
satisfaction to find that the Jury acquitted us of libelling Profess^ 
or Leslie on that point. It required, indeed, great special plead- 
ing to connect our general observations on the general ill name 
wiMch formerly attached to. the University of Edinburgh, with 
the character of a particular professor in it, and Mr Moncrieff 
of course laboured .it against us, but in vain. As for the other 
charges, we deny that accusing a philosopher with laying claim 
to a diseovery which is not his, is a libel. What discovery has 
been made which has not been exposed to such a charge ? The 
safety-lamp, the steam-engine, the atomic theory, all, in short, 
have been subject of controversies, which will be settled, not by de^ 
cision of law, but by the verdict of literary or scientific men. Who 
would not have felt ashamed for the honour of science, if Sir Isaae 
Newton and Leibnitz had appealed to the Courts to settle between 
them the right to their invention of fluxions ? Still more imreason- 
able was the action in our case, as we had directly referred to an 
authority different from our own as the source of charge, which, 
after all, was made in a parairraph full of mere iest. And isince 
that time, Dr Brewster C^rated it, and similar charges, as 
appears to us, with, undeniable justice, agmnst Professor L^lie^ 
unmolested. What, then, are we to think of the fairness of the 
proceedings against us ? It was evidently not the libel, but the ex- 
istence of the Magazine, that gave the principal oflence. 

As for the Hebrew part of the business, that was sheer non-* 
sense. There was not a Hebrew scholar in the country who did 
not give it against Mr Leslie. He had, on ignorant and silly grounds, 
dared to call Hebrew a rude and poor dialect ; and then set up, as a 
quirk, when he found his mistake, that when he spoke of the He- 
brew dicUect, he meant the Samaritan alphabet. As for his wit^ 
neeses, it was painful for the honour of Scottish literature to see' 



PREFACE. xw 

mMsk an eslubidoiu The first witness called up to deeide oia A» 
respective antiquities of tke Hebrew and Saiaaritan tongues, did 
not know one Samaritan letter from another. Does any cme th^ok^ 
then, that the verdict of fifteen Edinburgh citizens, allowii^ 
them to he, as we believe they wifte, strictly honest and conscien«- 
tious men, nnder the direction of a Judge who could not read the 
three or four little Hebrew words which occurred in the alleged 
libel, and swayed by the testinjbnies of such witnesses, has alter- 
ed the case ? — Not a jot. We are as clearly convinced of Profess* 
or Leslie's ignorance of Hebrew this moment, as we were wbeof 
the letter was written — ^nor does he now pretend to say that he 
understands one syllable of that language. But even supposing 
we had been as wrong as we were right— supposdi^ that Profess-* 
or Leslie was as full of Hebrew learning as the Archbishop of 
Cashel, and that we were as ignorant and imp«-tinent in our 
charge, as the Edinburgh Reviewer of the Oxford Strabo— still 
we say that the action was not a thing honourable to a man of 
science and literature, and was, we believe, in that respetrt^ un- 
paralleled. It has proved nothing, but that the Magazine was 
hated. 

Besides these libels, as they were called, on Professor LesK^ we 
were charged with being UbeUous in comparing him to a parrot 
for. praising himself, and abusing others, in the Edinburgh Re- 
view — a weighty crime ! — (This, by the by, some asses here called 
personality !) — It also was imputed to us as a very wrongful act, 
that we had ventured to express an opinion, that altering a title- 
page^ and tacking half a dozen pages at the back of an unsale- 
able book, did not make a new edition ; and we wete told in an- 
swer, that it was a trick of trade I — We wish any gentleman joy 
who thinks fit .to make such a defence, to degrade from the phi- 
losopher into the tradesman, and to endeavour to obtain damages 
against an antagonist, by confe«ing himself privy to a trick. We 
are satisfied. 

IV. We wished to get rid of the Edinburgh accusations against 
us, before we went across the Tweed. In England, the outcry 
against us has come principally from the Cockney School. That 
we did smash that pestilent sect, we acknowledge with pleasure. 
A baser crew never was spewed over literature. Conceited, igno- 
rant, insolent, disaffected, irreligious, and obscene, they had, by 
force of impudence, obt^dned a certain sway over the public mind. 
We lield them up to contempt, and then dropped them into the 
livery never to rise from it any more. Thai we did our work 



Xri PREFACE. 

roughfyj we acknowledge ; they were not vermin to be crushed hj 
a delicate finger. That we did our work personaUyj we deny ; un- 
less their own consciences applied to their persons what we sdid 
of their books; A man who writes a lascious poem, landing a hero 
and heroine, whose only claim to notoriety, was their having com- 
mitted incest, is an incestuous poet — ^it does n6t by any means fol- 
low that he is an incestuous man. Or, to descend to mere jocu- 
larities, when we say, that a rugged, uneven, foully-heated, scurfy 
style, is pimpled, our metaphor may not be a good one ; but there 
is no reason that the writer of that style should take the epithet 
intended for his sentence, to his nose. We positively assert, that 
our hatred and disgust to these scribblers, was political and lite- 
rary. How, in fact, could it be personal, against men whom we 
never saw, and who moved in such a sphere of life as to render it 
impossible for us to meet them ? 

The men are now very poor ; and, for that reason only, we for- 
bear ripping up their insolence. Everybody was pleased at their 
exposure, except themselves. The nickname we gave them, hais 
become a regularly established word in our literature. Lord 
Byron, while patronizing the sect, called them by no other title 
than the Cockneys ; and the other day, when a declining Maga- 
zine got into their hands, it was quite amusing to see the French 
papers announcing that it was to be edited by the <^ Cockneis.^ 
The thing, in fact, only required exposure to be destroyed for ever. 
They have since been abusing us with all the impotence of defeat- 
ed malice ; and in the bitterness of their woe, have declared, out 
of hatred to us, a harmless though disgusting war against Sir 
Walter Scott, and lately against the whole Scottish nation ! — ^Poor 
blockheads ! 

, V. We were involved in a quarrel with the London Magazine 
five years ago. We are extremely reluctant to dwell on this sub- 
ject for a very obvious reason ; but, in justice to ourselves, we 
must say, that we were the attacked party — that we scarcely re- 
plied — and that before the attack had been made on us, we always 
had spoken with compliment and civility of the London Maga- 
nine. We -must add, that Mr John Scott abused us, as a great 
many inferior Magazines before and since, from a mean desire of 
getting his own Magazine into notice — that he had employed a fellow 
whom we had unwittingly, in the ignorance of our provincialism, 
engaged to write London articles for us, to attack his Magazine 
in our pages, in order to fasten a quarrel upon us — and that we 
peremptorily refused to lend ourselves to what we thought was 



PREFACE. xvii 

mere malice. Am this fellow (all magazine-people will imow who 
he is, and nobody else would care about hearing his name,). is in 
the habit of pi^inting private letters, he can contradict ns on this 
point, if he is able. When Mr John Scott found that he could not 
quarrel with us on his own account, he took up what he thought 
proper to call the public cause, and poured against us two or three 
tirades of abuse, which, for virulence, falsehood, and vulgarity, 
were never surpassed. With a recklessness of blackguardism, 
he, without knowing anything of our management, attributed ar- 
ticles right and left to anybody whom he thought it would least 
becmne to have written them. How well qualified he was to judge 
from internal evidence, is clear from his attributing the Ayrshire 
Legatees, with the most brazen assurance, and insolent vitupera- 
tion, to Sir Walter Scott, — that he could have no assistance firom 
external evidence, is needless to say. Yet he persisted in flinging 
the most coarse Billingsgate allusions on gentlemen, immeasura- 
bly his superiors in every respect, and bawling and brawling with 
as much fury on a,jeu cT esprit, as if it were a murder. He did 
not stumble upon a true assertion in all this random firing. Cole- 
ridge, he assured the public, was quite indignant at our Magazine, 
at the very time that C. was corresponding with us by every post. 
Our conduct towards Hogg, he said, was infamous, and only sub- 
mitted to by the Shepherd from fear of offending powerful patrons ; 
— ^before six months had elapsed, James bad published his Life, 
claiming one of the most objectionable compositions in our A{a- 
gazine, and avowing his connexion with it from the very ban- 
ning — a connexion which we are happy to say, subsists unimpair- 
ed to this hour. The author of Peter's Letters was accused of 
writing some verses that gave offence to the Cockneys, which 
really were written by a man living 500 miles from Edinburgh. 
All this was mixed up with the grossest abuse, — ruffian, pick*- 
pocket, poisoner, scoundrel, assassin, were the mildest words in 
his mouth. The substance of private conversations was pried into 
— domestic life of the most honourable and pure kind was ran- 
sacked for grounds of insult. At last, a gentleman, of the most 
splendid abilities and npblest nature, who had been blackguarded 
by name, determined to put an end to the disgusting business — 
and he found, that the dog who barks will not always bite — that 
the bully is often the same person with the coward. He treated 
him accordingly ; and the unhappy man, soon feeling the degra- 
dation of his own conduct, fastened upon a gentleman, with whom 
he had no le^timate ground of quarrel, and came to the gpround. 



rriii PREFACE. 

Then be fell by ;llie hand of an unwilling aniagcmist, and » bolt 
neyer directed gainst him. Calumny and misrepresentstion — 
too gross for belief by far — were yet at work* But llieGentlenimi^ 
of England saw the afiair in its true light, and in admiration of 
the temper, honour, and bravery of the living, thoi^ht with forgivor 
ness of the misguided and infatuated dead. 

But let us pass from such subjects, and offer some explanation 
touching ibe course which we have for some time pursued in our 
more serious political articles. 

We are attached to the principles of Toryism, not because tfaqr 
wete promulgated by this great name, or that ; not because ibey 
form the creed of one party or another — but because we cons^ 
entiously believe them to be truth and wisdom. Our belief rests 
OB what we conceive to be decisive demonstration. These prin- 
^les, in.the last forty years, have been brought to every imagin- 
able test ; and if their truth be not matter of perfect and unassail- 
able proof, such proof cannot exist in the world. We can arrive at 
no other conclusion, when we look at the tremendous dangers 
through which they carried us in the period we have named^ — at 
tlie evi}s and misery from which they delivered Europe— and at 
the height of prosperity, happiness, and greatness to which they 
have raised this empire ; — and moreover, when we remember that 
the opposite ones — the principles of modem Whiggism — ^have been 
tried in other States, and have only produced the most terrible 
evils. These principles form the basis and bulwark of our sjrs- 
tem ; — upon their preponderance, from the changes that have been 
made in Whiggism, depends the existence of the British Alpnar- 
chy. 

Upon these principles, the Ministry has long acted, and so long 
we have been its warm friends. It has, however, on some occasions, 
in the last two years, wandered far from them to adopt others, 
which have hitherto been regarded as the essence of Whiggism 
and the reverse of Toryism. This has been followed by its natu- 
ral consequences. Our policy has been greatly changed-^some of 
our most important laws and systems have been changed — some 
of the leading relations and regulations of society have beeili chan- 
ged — certain of the habits and feelings of the nation have been 
changed — and other changes are in preparation, which must affect 
most seriously almost everything in the country that we have 
been accustomed to worship. 

If we had been the menials, and not the independent friends of 



PREFACE. ' xix 

the IVGiiisters — ^if we had Been believers in Toryism merely ^because 
tt was the creed of Lord Liverpool or Mr Canning — ^we shouTd 
perhaps hiave changed with them. But we were not. We fol- 
lowed them, only because we followed their principles — ^we sup- 
ported the creed and not the men. They did not ^ve us our faith, 
and it was not for them to take it away. We saw them leave lis 
i^pith pain and grief, but we went not after them ; we still kept in 
tbe path of our fathers. « 

If the Ministry had only changed its opinions on speculative 
points, we should not perhaps have opposed, if we could not have 
supported it. But, alas ! to reverse the relations between master 
and servant — to carry the trade of a nation like this from one sys- 
tem to another — to prejudice the people against monarchy and in 
favour of republicanism — ^and to make changes iji the laws whict 
materially alter the balance of our interests and bodies, and reach^ 
to injure, every man's purse and breadloaf, are not matters of mere 
abstract opinion. The changes of the Ministry have had the most 
sweeping practical operation; they have destroyed some of our 
most viEiluable laws and systems; they have altered the circum- 
stances and shape of society ; they are hostile to the old and true 
principles of the country; and they are pregnant with mighty 
evils. This is our conscientious conviction, and therefore we have 
opposed them. 

Moreover, we cannot shut our eyes to the truth of history ; we 
cannot ascribe to the experiments of the ministry, that prosperity 
which the kingdom at present enjoys, and which, in the exultation 
of the moment, all parties so readily ascribe to these experiments ; 
for we can distinctly trace its root and ramifications to the laws 
and principles of the old system — the system of the fathers ahd 
founders of our liberties,, our strength and our dominion. . Nay, 
more^ — Was it not in the fruits of that old system, that the mini- 
stry found the means by which they have been enabled to make 
their speculative changes, and to persuade Parliament to adopt 
their theoretical improvements ? What proof, indeed, have we yet 
received, that these changes have done England any good ? Was 
it tiot under the old commercial regulations that the overflow- 
ing of the revenue arose, by which the reductions were enabled 
to be made in those particular taxes that restricted the importation, 
and of course the consumption of the products of foreign and 
alien ingenuity? Is it not a problem which the evidence of facts 

is still required to detlermine, whether it would hot have been bet« 
Vol. xix. d 



XX PREFACE. 

ter to have allowed the restrictions to continue on foreign com- 
modities, and to have confined the redaction of taxation to the 
burdens which repress the growth of our own existing national 
and colonial industry ? — We are not here touching any doctrine 
of political economy, much as we are disposed to question some of 
the axioms of the science. We are only contending, that while the 
world consists of separate communities and different nations, it is 
the duty of the respective governments of each to regard exclu- 
sively their pwn interests. Formerly, when boons were granted to 
foreign countries, to encourage them to trade with England, it 
was the custom to obtain some equivalent benefit in return ; but 
now, since our policy has become libertine, we are exerting all the 
means of legislation to bring the products of foreign artizans into 
competition with those of our own operatives, not in the general 
market of the world, but in the very shops and huxteries of our re- 
motest towns and villages. England is forgotten in the cheers which 
the ministry are receiving from alien commercial interests ; and 
the surplus revenue derived from the ancient precautions of the 
wisdom of experiwice, is converted, by this new anti-national sys- 
tem, into boons and bounties, which will have the effect of raising 
competitors in trade and manufactures, by whom the profits of our 
own capitalists will be reduced to fractions, and the earnings and 
employment of our own people impoverished and curtailed. - 

If there had been an efficient Opposition to have examined tfaipse 
changes, we should perhaps have been silent : but there was not. 
If we could not have opposed them without assisting the Whigs 
to obtain the reins of government, we certainly should, not have 
written a line against them. We assuredly would have them 
rather than a Whig Ministry. Such a Ministry, when Whiggism 
is what it is in persons and principles, would be the greatest curse 
that could visit the country. The Whigs, however, were even 
more firmly pledged to the change than the Ministers ; and, of 
course, our opposition was as much directed against the former as 
the latter. We have not, by this opposition, contaminated our- 
selves with Whig alliance ; we have not disgraced ourselves by 
warring for Whig benefit ; we have fought for the good of our 
country only, in company with the most honourable and upright 
of our countrymen. 

The Ministry, however, by its change, placed us in a most pain- 
ful and embarrassing situation. It naturally carried ajlong with it 
all its own prints, and many of its friends. Its new principles 
and measures were cried up by the Opposition, and, as it seemed. 



PREFACE. XXi 

by the greater J)art of the nation. To oppose these we had to op- 
pose men whom we had long, and whom we still, venerated ; we 
had to oppose both the Ministry and the Opposition, a united Par- 
liament, a united Press, and, to a very great extent, public opi- 
nion. We had no party in the field to head and support us. Per- 
sonal profit and honour seemed to lie entirely on the side of 
change, and there appeared to be much to lose in fidelity and con- 
sistency. Nothing but the commands of conscience could have en- 
gaged us in such a contest. We had but one course before us as 
honest men, and this we took, regardless of consequences ; we 
looked neither to the right hand nor the left, but stood forward to 
defend the principles and laws under which our country had be- 
come free, great, and happy, without inquiring the names, descrip- 
tion, and numbers of their enemies. We knew the hearts of our 
countrymen ; we thought that our motives could not be suspect- 
ed ; we felt assured that every one would see that we were draw- 
ing upon ourselves the displeasure of all who could administer to 
our personal interest and ambition, and would therefore bear with 
us if they thought us in error, on the score of oiir integrity. Wc 
have not been mistaken. A regularly and greatly increasing cir- 
culation attests that our conduct has lost us no friends, and that 
we have had credit given us for honesty, if not for wisdom. 

It may be that the Ministry is right, and that all these changes 
are wise and necessary, but we cannot discover it. The more ac- 
curately we examine, the more firmly we are convinced of the 
truth of our own opinions. Time has brought no refutation to us, 
whatever it may have done to those from whom we differ ; in so 
far as experiment has gone, we may point to it in triumph in con- 
firmation of our principles and predictions. If at the last we be 
proved to be in error, we shall at least have the consolation of know- 
ing that we have not erred from apostacy ; that we have not erred 
in broaching new doctrines and schemes, and supporting innovation 
and subversion ; that we have not erred in company with the in- 
fidel and revolutionist,^ with the enemies of God and man. We 
shall have the consolation of knowing that we have erred in fol- 
lowing the parents of England's gi-eatness ; in defending that un- 
der which we have become the first of nations, and in protecting 
the fairest fabric that ever was raised under the face of heaven to 
dispense freedom and happiness to our species. Our error will 
bring us no infamy, and it will sit lightly on our ashes when we 
shall be no more. 



xxii PREFACE. 

We will persevere in our present path ; we will follow no party 
one. We revere many of the Ministers, we ever shall revere 
them, and whenever we can do it conscientiously we will support 
them. We will, however, oppose them firmly whenever duty may 
command us. We venture to hope that such of our readers as may 
not always think with us, will hear with us on the score of that la- 
titude of opinion which is the Englishman's hirth-right, and that 
they will pardon our errors in consideration of our intentions. 

If we have good reason to congratulate ourselves on our po- 
litical career, so can we look back with at least equal pleasure on 
our achievements in criticism and literature. 

Before we appeared, the art of criticism was indeed a truly mi- 
serable coAcern. The critic looked upon the poet as his prey. The 
two were always at daggers-drawing. The insolence of reviewenr 
had reached its acme, and absolutely stunk in the nostrils of the 
Public. Yet still there was a power in the rancid breath to taint, 
if not to wither. Men of genius were insulted by tenth-rate scrib- 
blers, without head or heart ; and all conversational criticism was 
pitched on the same key with that of the wretched reviews. We put 
an end to this in six months. A warm, enthusiastic, imaginative, 
and, at the same time, philosophical spirit, breathed through every 
article. Authors felt that they were understood and appreciated, 
and readers were delighted to have their own uncorrupted feelings 
authorized and sanctioned. In another year the whole periodical 
criticism of Britain underwent a revolution. Principles were laid 
down and applied to passages from our great living poets. People 
were encouraged to indulge their emotions, that they might be 
brought to know their nature. That long icy chill was shook off 
their fancies and imaginations, and here, too, in Criticism as in Po- 
litics, they began to feel, think, and speak, like free men. The au- 
thority of the Pragmatic Faction was annihilated, and no Zany- 
Zoilus in the Blue and Yellow could any longer outcrow the reading 
Public. A long, prosing leading article in the Edinburgh, abusing 
Wordsworth, looked ineffably silly beside one splendid panegyrical 
paragraph in Maga on the Great Laker; the evaporated soda- 
water of wishy-washy witlings would not go down after the still 
or sparkling Champaigne of old George Buchanan. A deposed 
Critic-king is a most deplorable subject. His temples are most ab- 
surd without their crown, and having lost his sceptre, he is forced 
to hide his hands in his breeches pocket. So fared it with m^ny 
an anointed head. Their thunder would no longer sour even small 
bec^r. Sneers saluted them as they skulked along, and th6 merest 



PREFACE, 



• • • 



vfm 



T^enifiers musteriod ap courage and trod upon U^elr kibes. - Pe- 
riodicals tlmt, a few years ago, with fear of change perplexed mo- 
i^chs, h9.ve since been known to apologize to boarding-school 
misses. This universal dethronement we accomplished, and thc^e 
is once more a Republic of Letters. 

The world has acknowleged that the appearance of our Maga- 
zine was indeed an era in the history of criticism. For some 
months, indeed, here too we were assailed by the most frantic 
&lsehoods. Dunces whom we had most mercifully knocked on; the 
head, or rather killed in a moment by scientifically putting the well- 
sharpened point of our pen into their spinal marrow, were buried by 
their friends with all the pomp of martyrs. Their blood, it was 
said, would lie heavy on our heads — ay, heavy as their works on 
our shelves. And the Sanctum, within No. 17, Prince's Street, 
it was prophesied, would be haunted by their ghosts. The few! 
spectres that ventured thither, ODoherty tumbled neck and heels 
ii^to the Balaam-Box, where they were laid as effectually as in the . 
Red Sea. At such enormities as these the public could not but 
simper, and the names of the slain were soon wiped as effectually 
from the memories of all mankind, as chalk-writings on the walls 
of houses by the sponges of the police. ^^ Mention the names of 
t^e gentlemen whom you blame us for having murdered," and the 
answer uniformly was, " Their names, Christopher ? — Why, we 
h^ve forgotten their names.^' ^^ Hold your tongue, then; for a mur- 
der, without the Christian and surname of the defunct, is not worth 
mentioning before ears polite." But our humanity in all this was 
most exemplary — ^for our murders were all metaphorical — ^and we 
had merely driven a number of our fellow-creatures from the folly, 
shame, and exposure of a life of literary prostitution, into the ncr 
cessity of gaining an honest livelihood in compting-houses, upon 
wharfs, and in agriculture. 

There was another class of writers, (we mention no names,) who . 
had long been prodigiously overrated by themselves and their 
party. Merit they had, and we allowed it; tbut not one of them 
all was a Phoei^ or a Phenomenon of any sort, and we. took, the 
liberty of speaking of them as if they were mere men, of various 
sizes, some with wigs and some without wigs, and all compre- 
hended within the Bills of Mortality. This, too, gave offence, as 
it was meant to do. A man hates to be undeified — to be reduced . 
to the rigiks of humanity. These persons were bitter against us, 
but it would not do. They felt it henceforth to be, up-hill work, . 
and accepte4 their proper leyel as we laid it down. Nay, by and by, 
they absolutely grew into contributors, (rejected ones of cou: ^ 



XXiv PREFACE. 

and inundated the Blue-Parlour with articles that could have 
lijghted all the cigars in Edinburgh. What has become of most of 
these di^inguished literary characters now, we have sometimes 
puzzled ourselves in conjecturing ; but we would fain hope that 
they have died in the course of nature of a good old age. 

But the living literature of England, thank God, is of a glorious 
spirit. Scott, Byron, Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, and others, 
are men to stand undiminished — undwindled, by the side of the 
giants of the olden time. They too had, one and all of them, been 
insulted equally by the abuse and by the panegyric of pigmies. 
Praise was absolutely doled out to these illustrious writers, with the 
most stately eleemosynary airs, by critics in the last stage of mental 
famine and starvation. The prating coxcombs did not bend their 
little insignificant knees before the image which they pretended and 
presumed to idolize, but they strutted up in self- worship, with an 
old stump of a pen behind their ears, and laid their small articles 
of oblation on the shrine — ^articles that never could be made to 
take fire, but evaporated in a stink of smoke most offensive to 
Apollo. Then, like savages, they grew angry with their gods, if 
their invocations were not he^rd, and positively abused the veiy 
objects of their former idolatry; forgetting, however, that, in 
their cases, they could not pull down what they had not sef up, ' 
and that nature guarded the sons and daughters of genius. True 
it is, that the worst and basest passions alternately tore the hearts 
of critics in their abject superstitions ; and that their works are 
a perfect chaos of unshaped thought and feeling, presenting a won- 
derful and melancholy contrast with those ordered creations that 
had provoked their spleen, their envy, or their admiration. Out 
of the hands, or rather the paws, of such worthless worshippers^ 
we took the office of Priest to the Muses. We hailed the sunrise 
of genius with very different strains. We inspired men with that 
spirit in which alone genius can be known, felt, or seen. We attend- 
ed the car of its triumphs, to clear the way, and to swell the hymn* 
Without enthusiasm — without something of the same transport 
that seizes on the poet's soul — what signify the imperfect sym- 
pathies of the critic ? The due expression of delight awaked in 
sincere hearts by the glories of genius must be eloquent. That 
delight does not speak in short, measured, precise, analytical sen- 
tences, nor yet in the long-winded ambulatory parade of para- 
grapiis circuitously approaching, against all nature and all art, to 
a catastrophical climax. Biit thoughts that breathe, and words 
that burn, break from the critic's lips who is worthy of his bard; 
and his prose panegyric is, in body and in soul — itself a poem. 



PREFACE. XXy 

It is thus we have ever spoken, and ever will speak, of the Mag- 
nates of Parnassus. Yet should any one — even of them — ^be led 
astray, not *^ by tlie light from heaven," but by the corusoations of 
bis own clouded and tempestuous genius, it is well known how we 
have ever stood affected towards the glorious but dangerous de- 
linquent. Remembet how we bearded Byron in his Den — ay, at 
a time when all the puny whipsters stood aloof trembling, and 
feared to breathe a whisper, lest the Childe should grasp them in his 
ire, flog, flay, and anatomize. We alone met him hand to hand, 
and, in the Open Ring of Europe, challenged the mighty wrestler 
to try a fall. Much was said of our presumption, and more, as 
usual, of our personality — ^that weary watchword of the weak and 
wicked — ^and the trembling cowards cried, ^^ Shame, shame, to 
abuse Byron !" But Byron thought otherwise. He knew that 
his match was before him ; and although Byron feared no man's 
face, yet we know he respected our bearing on that occasion. 

Nor let it be said that, either on this or any other occasion, the 
moral Satyrists in this Magazine ever wished to remain unknown. 
How, indeed, could they wish for what they well knew was impossi- 
ble ? All the world has all along known the names of the gentlemen 
who have uttered our winged words. Nor did it ever, for one single 
moment, enter into the head of any one of them to wish— not to 
scorn concealment. To gentlemen, too, they at all times acted 
like gentlemen ; but was it ever dreamt by the wildest visionary 
that they were to consider as such the scum of the earth ? " If I 
but knew who was my slanderer," was at one time the ludicrous 
skraigh of the convicted Cockney. Why did he not ask ? and 
what would he have got by asking? Shame and confusion of 
face — ^unanswerable argument and cruel chastisement. For before 
one word would have been deigned to the sinner, he must have 
eaten — and the bitter roll is yet ready for him — all the lies he had 
told for the last twenty years, and must either have choked or 
been kicked — no pleasing alternative. But why thus bastinado 
the Specimens — they are but stuffed skins. 

But there is yet another class of writers, of our conduct respect- 
ing whom, permit us to say a very few words. We mean youthful 
aspirants after literary fame. Let them show either taste, or feeling, 
or genius. — ^much or little — and have they not all found us their 
friends ? They are overlooked by the world — What is that to us ? 
If they have any lustre, they are soon discerned by us, be they glow- 
worms or stars, and their place pointed out in heaven or on earth. 
Perhaps they are so very unfashionable, that thdr volumes never 
get farther than* the servants' hall. What is that to us^ if the vo-. 



Xxvi PREFACE. 

Imnes have any merit ? Show us either promise or perforitiaticey 
Bitd without any appearance of patronage, which is the mere tri- 
umph of pride over humility, we address the writer in terms of 
friendly encouragement and inspiriting commendation. We ha^e 
the pure satisfaction of knowing that we have been of substantial 
service to several persons of merit in this way : and \idthout wish- 
\ngio misrepresent the character of any one of our Contemporaries, 
"we simply ask, which of them have treated unobtrusive and mo- 
dest merit with half the kindness of that bloody-minded hobgob- 
lin — ^Blackwood's Magazine ? 

With some two or three writers of more than ordinary genius, or 
talent, or taste, we alone have dealt either with common sense or 
isommon feeling. We may mention three — Keats, Shelley, Procter. 
Keats possessed from nature some ^^ fine powers," and that was the 
Very expression we used in the first critique that ever mentioned 
his name. We saw, however, with mi^ed feelings pf pity, sorrow, 
indignation, and contempt, that he was on the road to ruin. He 
was a Cockney, and Cockneys claimed him for their own. Never 
was there a young man so encrusted with conceit. He added new 
treasures to his mother-tongue, — ^and what is worse, he outhunt- 
ed Hunt in a species of emasculated pruriency, that, although 
invented in Little Britain, looks as if it were the product of some 
imaginative Eunuch's muse within the melancholy inspiration of the 
Haram. Besides, we know that the godless gang were flattering him 
into bad citizenship, and wheedling him out of his Christian faith. 
In truth, they themselves broke the boy's heart, and blasted all 
his prospects. We tried to save him by wholesome and severe 
discipline — they drove him to poverty, expatriation, and death. ^ 
Then they howled out murder against, first the Quarterly Re- 
view, and then this Magazine. Heartless slaves ! Did not John 
Hunt himself, even Prince John, publish, for the sake of filthy 
lucre, Byron's cutting sarcasms on poor Keats, after he was in his 
grave ? Nay, did he not publish Byron's outrageous merriment on 
this very charge of murder ? — an instance of heartless eflrontery 
unparalleled since the Age of Bronze ? 

We renjiefliber — ^we believe it was in John Scott's abuse of us — 
having it particularly bandied against us as a heinous crime that 
We had ventured to hint that Keats was an apothecary, and been 
jooose on his pestle and mortar. A sad ofience ! These people 
must be quite new in the world of wit. We thought all these ^ 
common-jdaces of quizzing were perfectly understood, and of 
course harmless. From long prescription in this style of writing, 
a lawyer is a rogue — a physician kills his patients — a parson has 



PREFACE. XXVii 

a routid paunch— an alderman guttles and»guzzlesh-*an attorney 
19 an arrant knave — ^and so on. What man of the least sense in 
these eminent professions, takes offence at these threadbare jests ? 
Some of our jesters, it appears, could not resist the revival of the 
union of poetry and pharmacy in John Keats, as they had existed 
in Apollo, and made sorry jokes thereupon. But for the spirit of 
exaggeration which has attended everythmg connected with our 
Magazine, this never would have been considered as an offence. 
It was set down as a most grievous one by the same party who 
were calling Dr Phillpotts (one of the most accomplished men in 
England ) a foul-mouthed parson, and cracking jokes on Words- 
worth for being a stamp-master — ^Wordsworth, who, independently 
of his unequalled genius, is by birth, education, character, and in- 
dependence, precisely the man best fitted to hold in any country 
an office of trust and responsibility, and of such moderate emolu- 
ment as suits and satisfies the wishes of a Poet and Philosopher. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley was a man of far superior powers to Keats. 
He had many of the faculties of a great poet. He was, however^ 
we verily believe it now, scarcely in his right mind. His errors in 
private life had been great, but not prodigious, as the Quarterly 
Review represented them ; and they brought evils along with them 
which Shelley bore with fortitude and patience. He had many 
noble qualitiei^; and thus gifted, thus erring, and thus an outcast, 
we spoke of him with kindness and with praise. He felt, and grate- 
fully acknowledged both ; and was proud to know, that some of 
the articles in our work on his poetry, were written by a poet 
whose genius he admired and imitated. How did the Cockneys 
swallow our praises of Shelley ? — As wormwood. For envy and 
jealousy are the corroding and cancerous passions which are for 
ever gnawing at a Cockney's heart. 

Procter we once loved to praise, and our praises did much for 
him, as he must know, now that his popularity has departed from 
him. Most cordially will we praise him again, whenever he shall 
produce a poem worthy of himself — of his taste and his genius. 
But Mr Procter forgot altogether the measure of his powers-*- 
wrote on in opposition to the advice of his wisest friends — and 
sunk every additional poem deeper and deeper into the mire of 
mannerism — selected classical subjects of which he knew nothing, 
andless than nothing, committing flagrant falsehoods in sincerest 
truth — ^till, ere his shoes were old, he dozed the public iisqtie ad nau- 
seam — got set down for a bore— -was teaJscd, tolerated, defended, 

damned, and forgotten. 
YoL. XIX. c 



X3iviii PREFACE. 

So much for our critical character ; and we have merely fuv-^ 
niffhed a few slight, hints for the world at lai^e to ruminate upon. 
But;that is but part» and a Very small part too, of our general cha^ 
ract^* Were we to enlarge upon that, we should have to write 
till next Christmas^ Are there any of our readers old enough to 
reeollect or to have forgotten the Chaldee Number ? We then laid 
before mankind a list of intended articles. They stared, quaked, 
gabbled, or were dumb. ^^ All Fudge !" exclaimed many wise* 
acres, with brains of their own as the barren summit of Benevis* 
" Why do you tell?" said other nincompoops ; " other editors will 
forestall you," What say ye now, ye mitoirables? Essays on all 
imaginable subjects under the sun-^letters to, from, for, and 
against almost every party, profession, and individual ip the Bri- 
tish Empire-^sketches of character, so multiform and multitu^i-^ 
nous, as to give an extended idea of the inexhaustible varieties ef • 
human nature — ^inquiries into a thousand subjects, the very exist- 
ence of which had never been previously suspected^-o^vioes to 
people under every possible coincidence of circumstances— Hue- 
moirs of men in the moon-^^squisitions on the drama, epic, ly-* 
rical, didactic, and even pastoral poetry, here, there, and every«>' 
where, on continent and isle, all over the face of the habitable 
globe — songs, epigrams, satires, elegies, epithalamia, epicedia«-« 
and God knows what : — out they all came, helter-skelter, head* 
over-heels, and leap-'frc^, to the endless amazement of the wide- 
mouthed world. For upwards of eight years has this inexplicable 
syatem prevailed ; and with the true ^^ vires-acquiriUeundo*^ spirit, 
the Magazine is now more pregnant and productive than ever,*- 
boiling over like a Geyser, scalding all natural philosophers that 
approach without wisdom or. warning; but diffusing a flowery 
warmth over every region, it overflows and astonishes the natives 
with imexpected and almost untoiled^for harvests. 

True it is, and most happy are we to be able to say it, that 
other periodicals are spouting away very respectably, in imitation 
of Mi^. Long may they spout. But who taught the art oS well- 
di^ng? who fanged the wells when dug? Christopher North. 
And however unwilling we are at all times to allude, even dis- 
tantly, to our own name, we are much mistaken if posterity-— <bi^, 
not posterity — but our grateful coevals or contemporaries, will not 
place our names in juxtaposition witii those of Smeaton, Ark- 
wright, and Watt. 

As for our literary articles, knowing by whom they are written, 
and by what men tKey are valued, we leave them freely to fee criti- 



PREFACE. xxir 

t;ised by any petty litterateur that pleases. In our politics, we have 
been Tory through thick and thin, through good report and evil 
report ; or, as Mr Montgomery well expressed it, come wind, come 
sun ; come fire, come flood. Honouring and venerating the churches 
established under divine Providence in these islands, we have to the 
utmost of our power supported their interests — not from any idle 
or obstinate bigotry, but because we conscientiously look upon them 
as the main stays of the constitution of Bngland, as the bulwarks 
of the Protestant faith, as tending in the highest degree to promote 
Christianity, L e. virtue and happiness, finally, believing that a 
Idngly government, checked and balanced by a proud aristocracy, 
and a due admixture of a popular representation, is the only one fit 
for these kingdoms, (we meddle not with what may be fit under 
other circumstances in other lands or ages,) we have always incul- 
cated the maxim of honouring the King, and all put in authority 
under him, with the honours they deserve. Their enemies, Whig, 
Jacobin, Radical, Deist, Demagogue, or whatever other title they 
take, are our enemies, and with them we have no truce. Caring 
little for the newfangled and weathercock doctrines every day 
broached around us, and knowing, by long experience, that we have 
thriven under the old notions, we hold to them with a tenacity, which 
to some may appear obstinate, but which, as yet, we have seen no 
reason to repent. Intimately convinced that this country is a great 
instrument in the hands of Grod, we hope that it will not be turned 
to evil, and to the utmost of our ability shall resist all machina- 
tions for that purpose. And loving that country with a more than 
filial love, attached to all its interests, rejoicing in its prosperity, 
grieved to the soul in its adversity, delighted to see it victorious in 
war, still more delighted to see it tranquil at home, and honoured 
abroad during peace, we shall never cease to advocate the cause of 
those whose exertions we firmly believe have promoted, and will 
promote, its happiness or its glory. Of the effect of our work in 
diffusing a healthy and manly tone throughout the empire, and of 
creating a proper spirit of courage and patriotism, it would be va- 
nity to speak. It has had its effect^ and we are satisfied. 

Hark ! exquisite music ! Our street-bands are indeed wondrously 
executive. — " Wha wadna be in love with bonny Maggy Lauder ?" 
— Come, Tickler — a jig, a jig ! — Gentle reader, farewell, and par- 
don us for having thus bestowed our tediousness upon you. Not 
one half of our good works are yet touched upon, but true merit 
is ever modest. 

So WE WISH THE UxivERSE A HArrv New Year* 



XXX PREFACE. 



I* 



POSTSCRIPT. 

A few words to correspondents. We began our work with- 
out ever dreaming of correspondents, being in ourselves an host. 
Matter enough we have ever had — far more than enough ; and by 
means of such machinery as we possess, we can, in one day, work 
up the raw material into the most firm and beautiful texture for 
immediate sale— all articles warranted. But month after month, 
correspondents, unasked, have joined our banners. Country gentle- 
men of fortune, and no profession — ^town gentlemen of profession, 
and no fortune— doctors of ^sculapian skill— clergymen of the old 
Jeremy Taylor breed — barristers, who one day or other will be 
Copleys-^naval and military officers, emulous of Nelson and ODo- 
herty — men before the mast and among the light-bobs — travelling 
Fellows of Colleges — ^merchants worth a plum — clerks with sala- 
laries of L.75 per annum — maiden ladies of true motherly affec- 
tions — misses in their teens — and wonderful old women, who have 
cut young teeth at fourscore and ten — A merry New-year to yoir 
all ! You know us too well now to be in any feverish anxiety 
about the insertion of your articles. An Editor must be some- 
thing of a despot, although by nature the mildest of men. But 
he never forgets one single soul of you — and every now and then, 
an Article, supposed to be lost for ever, appears suddenly with all 
the effulgence of a comet. Talent, wit, learning, never can knock 
in vain at the door of our Sanctum ; nor is there one instance 
on record of either having left its interior in disappointment. De- 
lightful has it been to us to see genius coming forth in power from 
the most unexpected quarters, to the support of principles for 
ever exposed to danger, but we now believe imperishable. In an- 
other year or so, perhaps we shall publish a List of Contributors, 
such as never appeared to any Joint-Stock Company. The world 
knows the inexhaustible richness of — The Mine, 



BLACKWOOD'S 



EDINBURGH MAGAZINE 



No- CVIII. 



JANUARY, 1826. 



Vol. XIX, 



LETTER FEOM MAJOR SPENCER MOOORIDGE. 



To Christopher North^ Emq. 



My dear North^ 

In the proposal you have of late so 
earnestly and frequently urged on me, 
that I should shape ana parcel out my 
military recollections into articles for 
your Magazine, I really am at a loss 
to recognize eidier that felicity of tact, 
or soundness of jud^ent, hy which 
you are usually distmguished. I re- 
member in 1816, when our acquaint- 
ance first commenced, (it was at Gib- 
raltar, on your return from the Le- 
vant,) that certain moving narrations 
of the accidents I had encountered by 
flood and field, did occasionally con- 
tribute, along with the Malaga and 
cigars, to relieve the monotony of the 
evenings in my barrack-room, when 
you condescended to become its guest. 
X ou were then obligingly tolerant of 
the poorness of your cheer, both men- 
tal and physical, at least politely qui- 
escent when I assumed the dreaded, 
though acknowledged privilege of an 
old soldier, and 

*' JPought all my battles o*er again, 
And thrice I slew the slain.'* 

You did more than this. You strongly 
recommended me to compend a regular 
and consecutive narrative of the more 
strildi^ portions of my military ca- 
- reer, m>m the confused chaos of ma- 
VoL. XIX. 



terials I had laid before you, and as* 
sured me of your conviction, that the 
strong interest they had excited in you 
would not be unpartidpated by the 
public. 

My own indolence, and other causes 
not now necessary to notice, prevent* 
ed my then following your advice. 
I did not write a book, though die 
time was certainly favourable for such- 
an imdertaking. The excitement pro- 
duced by the war, and its gl(»ious 
termination, had not yet passed away ; 
Waterloo still rung in every ear; tne. 
allies were yet in Paris ; Napoleon was 
scarcely chained to his rock ; the voice 
of the reading public was for tinzr— 
war not merely in the pride, pomp, and 
circumstance with which it is invested 
by the historian, but in tl\ose humbler 
aspects, andmore midute details, which 
those alone who were themselves actord 
in the scene can supply. In these cir- 
cumstances, the booksellers set at work 
their potent spells to evoke military 
spirits from the vasty deep. And wlio 
answered to the call? Why, James 
Simpson, and a few other tourists of 
eoual calibre and capacity for the task. 
The Farce of Simpson S^ Co., however, 
was played with success, and had a run. 
And such was then die indiscriminate 



Letter to ChrUtopher NmA, B*f> 



v> 



mental o(»iflict« I knew myself to be 
brave, only because I wanted courage 
to be a coward. No man fears death 
more than I do, or would shrink more 
sensitively from its appalling gripe. 
But in me the certainty of snam&— 
of being cut off from my fellow-men, 
a mark for the finger of scorn to point 
atp— outweighed in terror the probabi- 
lity of death. Surely to choose the 
ieasi of two evils, one of which is 
inevitable, is no proof of courage ; 
more, than this I have never done. 

You will say this verges on para- 
dox, but I cannot think so. The le- 
gitimate conclusion to be drawn from 
it is, not that he is the brave man 
who runs away, and the coward who 
fights, because both equally follow the 
stronger impulse. The brave man 
does not fear death less than the cow- 
ard, but he fears disgrace more. 

I have been more prolix about these 
matters than they require, but I wisJi- 
ed you not to think that the task you 
impoHse upon me, of favouring the 
public with an account of my '^ me- 
morabilia," was attended with neither 
' pain nor sacrifice on my part, and also 
that you should understand the spirit 
of perfect openness and sincerity which 
I snail bring to the execution of it. I 
shall at least not attempt to pass my- 
self for better than I am, and if I 
trade in base metal, no man shall say 
that I palmed it on him for gold. Of 
autobiography, (commonly so called,) 
God knows we have enough, and more 
than enough. Repetition has staled 
its infinite varieties, and from Cum- 
berland and Colley Gibber, both up* 
wards and downwards, we have been 
palled with all the incense and adula- 
tion which vanity is ever seeking op- 
portunity to offer at the shrine of self- 
love. Vanity, in various modifications 
indeed, but still vanity, is and must 
be the ruling principle of this kind of 
work. Some men delight to show 
themselves in a full-dress holiday suit, 
and cooped up in stays and a stiff cra- 
vat, others dress themselves like opera 
dancers, in flesh-coloured silk, which 
they wish to pass off upon us for their 
skin. Easily, however, as such de- 
ceptions are detected, they are proba- 
bly aU that, in this kind of writing, 
we have any reason to expect. 

No man will reveal of nimself that 
which he knows must render him an 
object of di^ust or aversion to his 
feUow-men. When he approaches the 



task, even in good fiuth, hft will in- 
voluntarily cast his defects into the 
shade, or endeavour to screen them 
from our view. Depend on it, when 
" pimpled Hazlitt draws his own 

Eortrait, he manages that the chief 
ght does not fall on his ** starry 
front," or the huge carbimcle on his 
nose, and you will see nothing on can- 
vass of the obtrusive buck-tooth bj 
which his visage is disfigured. So it 
is with us all. Our weakness will not 
let us exhibit ourselves as God made 
us, our vanity is ever at work to con- 
ceal our mental blotches anderuptions, 
to erase the impression of the seal 
which nature set on us, and softai 
down into dull smoothness and mono- 
tony, those marks and prominences 
on which our very idiosyncrasy de« 
pends. 

But what a man has not coar^;e 
to say openly of himself, he may say 
in the person of another, his words 
may be uttered by other lips, and his 
sentiments transferred to another bo- 
som ; and the belief that this was done 
by Lord Byron in his assumed ehfr* 
racter of Cnilde Harold, was the cir- 
cumstance that contributed more than 
any other to the vivid and overween- 
ing interest with which that vigorous 
creation has been regarded by the 
world. Even in the trifling Sketehes 
which I am about to attempt, there- 
fore, I cannot but consider the " no- 
minis umbra" imder which I abide, a 
^eat and indispensable advantage. It 
IS a mask which will not hide the 
changes of the countenance, a xobe 
whi(£ will not cover the working of 
the muscles, or the pulsation of the 
heart. 

It is unnecessary that I should say 
more. If, after a calm and deliberate 
consideration, you stiU persist in think- 
ing your work can derive advantage 
ifrom any communications of mine, I 
will not refuse to grant the act of 
friendship you have so eamestiy d^ 
manded. I only fear you wiU aocuse 
me of inordinate vanity in saying so 
much where so little was required, and 
furnishing a comment^ so volumi- 
nous and disproportioned to the vakie 
of the text. This is, at best, to adqpt 
the exaggeration of the Eastern Coster* 
monger, who proclaims to the world, 
in the name of the prophet — " FigsJ' 
Ever yours, &c. 

Sp£NC£B MoOGUDOEt 



iwea 



The Country Curate. Chap* L TTte Poacher • 



THE COUNTRY CUBATE. 



Chap. I. 

The Poacher. 



In a distant part of the parish^ in 
one of its wildest and most uncultiva- 
ted regions^ stands a solitary cottage^ 
which^ not more from the absolute 
dreariness of its location^ than from 
the melancholy aspect of its architec- 
tnre^ can hardly ftul to attract the no- 
tice of any wanderer who may chance 
to pass that way. It stands all alone 
upon a desolate moor. There are npt 
even the varieties occasioned by hill 
and dale^ to give to the thing the 
least of a romantic appearance ; but, 
as far as the eye can reach, ^all is one 
flat, dreary common, so perfectly bare 
of pasture that the very sheep seem to 
shun it, whilst one or two old wither- 
ed firs give evidence that man has, at 
some period or another, endeavoured 
to turn it to use, but has abandoned the 
attempt, because he found it fruitless. 

'Almost in the centre of this moor 
stands the cottage above alluded to. 
Its walls, constructed partly of brick, 
partly of deals, give free passage to 
every blast, let it blow from what 
quarter it may ; and its roof, original- 
ly tiled, is now covered over, where it 
is covered at all, in some parts by 
patches of miserable thatch, in others 
by boards nsuled on, by an unskilful 
hand, to the rafters. The cottage is 
two stories high, and presents five 
windows, besides a door on each side 
of it. The windows, as may be guess- 
ed, retain but few fragments of glass 
within the frames, the deficiency being 
supplied by old hats, rags, jackets, 
and rabbit-skins : whilst of the doors, 
the front or main one hangs by a 
single hinge, and that behind is fas- 
tened to tne sinister lintel by no few- 
er than five latches made of leather. 

Of the grounds by which it is be- 
girt, a few words will suffice to con- 
vey an adequate idea. In setting out 
from the Vicarage, he who wishes to 
reach that cottage had better make, in 
the first place, for the high-road. 
Having traversed that for a while, he 
will observe a narrow foot-path on the 
left hand, which, after descending to 
the bottom of a glen, and rising again 
to the summit of a green hiU, will 



bring him within view of the desolate 
tract already noticed, and will conduct 
him safely, for in truth there is no 
pass besides itself across the wild, to 
the hovel in question. There it^ends. 
It stretches nowhere beyond ; indeed, 
it has evidently been formed by the 
tread of the tenants of that lonely ha« 
bitation, as they have gone to or re- 
turned from church and market ; the 
scantiness of the soil has doubtless 
given a facility to its formation ; for, 
in truth, were any human being to 
walk twenty times backwards and for- 
wards over any given spot in the moor, 
he would leave a trace of his journey 
behind him, which whole summers 
and winters would hardly suffice to 
obliterate. 

Whilst the front door of the cottage 
opens at once upon the heath, a cou]^e 
of roods of garden-ground, surround- 
ed by a broken gorse-hedge in the 
rear, give proof of the industry or idle- 
ness of its tenants. Through the 
middle of this plot runs a straight 
walk, ending at a style^ or immovable 
gate, erected in the lower fence. The 
artides produced are such only, on 
each side of that walk, as require 
little or no soil to bring them to per- 
fection. A bed of potatoes, some rows 
of cabbages and savoys, two apple- 
trees, a damson and a boolus, half a 
dozen gooseberry-bushes, with twice 
as many.of red-currant, constitute the 
sum total of the crop ever reared upon 
it. To make such a soil produce even 
these, must, I apprehend, have requi- 
red some labour ; and I will do its in- 
habitants the justice to observe, that;, 
overgrown as it is now with nettles 
and rank weeds, there was a time 
when labour was not spared upon it. 

In this miserable hovel dwelt, for 
many years previous to my arrival 
in tne parish, old Simon Lee, the 
most skilful and the most deter- 
mined poacher in all the county ; 
he was now the father of five chil- 
dren, the eldest of whom when I first 
became acquainted with him, had at- 
tained his twenty-third year, whilst 
the youngest was just begitoning to 



The Country Curate. Chap, /. T%€ Poacher. 



tJi 



run aIone> being as yet afraid to trust 
itself beyond arms-length from the 
chairs or tables, or any other sub- 
stance of which it could lay hold. 
Simon himself was turned sixty. He 
was a short man, measuring not more 
than five feet five inches from the 
sole of his foot to the crown of his 
head. His make was spare^ but bony 
and muscular ; his face, seamed as it 
was by exposure to weather, had, on 
the whole, a good expression; and 
there* was a great deal more of intelli- 
gence in his keen black eye than you 
will often observe in the eye of an 
English peasant. Simon's ordinary 
dress, when he went abroad, was a 
short brown gaberdine, which reach- 
ed barely to his knees, a pair of fus- 
tian trowsers, hobnailed shoes, and 
thick worsted stockings. His hat was 
made of straw, and manufactured by 
his own hands ; and you never failed 
to observe a piece of black tape or rib- 
bon bound round it, just above the 
brim, Simon was, or rather would 
have been, but for his determined pre- 
dilection in favour of the primitive 
employment of the chase, one of the 
best and most trust- worthy labourers 
in the parish. Set him to what you 
would, he never failed to do you jus- 
tice. I have had him, again and again, 
to dig in my garden, and have com- 
pared his diligence with that of other 
men who bore a fairer character, and 
I must do Simon the justice to say, 
that he has invariably worked harder 
for his day's pay than any individual 
among them. In the matter of ho- 
nesty, again, you might trust him 
with untold gold. Much as he was 
disliked, and I know no character in 
a country place more universally dis- 
liked .than a poacher, not a human 
being laid a theft or a robbery to his 
charge ; indeed, he was so well thought 
of in that respect, that it was no un- 
common circumstance for the persons 
who blamed him most severely, to 
hire him, when occasion required, to 
watch their orchards or hop-poles: 
For Simon was well known to fear 
neither man nor devil. He really and 
truly was one of the few persons, 
among the lower orders, whom chance 
has thrown in my way, whose pro- 
pensity for poaching I should be dis- 
posed to pronounce innate, or a thing 
of principle. 
As a proof of this^ I need only men- 



tion that Simon and I have discussed 
the subject repeatedly, and that he 
has argued in favour of his occupation 
as stoutly and openly as if there had 
been no law in existence against it. 
" Why, you know, it is illegal," I 
would say ; '^ and you must likewise 
know that it is little better than steal- 
ing. What right have you to take £he 
hares or partridges which belong to 
another man ?" " Lord bless you, sir/' 
was Simon's invariable reply, ** if yoa 
Will only tell me to whom they belong, 
I promise you never to kill another 
while I live." " They belong," said 
I, " to those upon whose lands they 
feed. Would you consider it right to 
take one of Sir Harry Oxendeer^s 
sheep or turkeys ; why then will you 
take his hares or his pheasants?" 
'* As to the matter of that," replied 
Sitbon, " there is a mighty difference 
between sheep and hares. Sheep are 
bought for money, they remain al- 
ways upon one spot, they bear the 
owner's mark, they are articles of bar- 
ter and sale,*' (I profess not to give 
my friend's exact words, only the sub- 
stance of his argument,) ^' and they 
have always been such. But the hare 
which is found on Sir Harry's grounds 
to-day, may be found on Squire 
Deeds's to-morrow, and mayhap Sir 
Edward Knatchbull's the day af- 
ter; now, to which of these three 
gentlemen can the hare be said to be- 
long? No, sir. God made the wild 
beasts of the field and the fowls of the 
air for the poor man as well as for the 
rich. I will never so far forget my- 
self as to plunder any man's hen-roost, 
or take away his cattle ; but as long 
as these old arms can wield a gun, and 
these old hands can set a snare, I will 
never be without a hare or a pheasant, 
if I happen to want it." There^was 
no arguing against a. man who would 
talk thus; so after combating the point 
with him for a time, I finally gave it 
up. 

The worst of it was, however, that 
Simon not only poached himself, but 
he brought up his son to the same 
occupation. The Lees were notorious 
throughout the country. Not a game- 
keeper round but knew them; nor 
was there one who did not, in some 
' degree, stand in awe of them. It was 
suspected, too, that they had good 
frierids somewhere behind the curtain ; 
for though the patriarch had been con- 



The Country Curate. Chap. I. 7^ Poacher. t 

Uiat t)iey should earn their bread in 
an honest way> and be beholden to no 
human being. Simon being the eldest 
of the family^ succeeded, on the death 



18ttf.;3 

victed sereral times^ he always mana^ 
ged to pay the fine, and^ except once, 
had never suffered imprisonment. 
I deem it no part of a country cler- 



gyman's duty to quarrel with one of of his father^ to the farm. But he 
his parishioners because he happens to had hardly taken possession when 



set th^ game-laws at defiance. Per- 
haps of all the laws that exist they are 
in themselves the least defensible^ and 
they 1^ to consequences often more 
serious than their warmest advocate 
would willingly anticipate. But with 
the justice or injustice^ the policy or 
impolicy of these laws, I have no con- 
cern ; there they are upon the statute- 
book, and, like all other laws, they 
ought to be observed. Still I repeat, 
that a clergyman has no business to 
quarrel with a poor man who trans- 
gresses in this point, and ! in none be- 
sides. For my own share, though I 
never told Simon as much, I could not 
but feel a kind of respect for him. 



the rage for large farms b^an to show> 
itself; and in a few years after, he 
was sent adrift, in order that his fields 
might be added to those of a wealthy 
tenant, who undertook to cultivate 
them better, and pay some two shil^ 
lings per acre more to the landlcnrd* 
Whetner the new tenant kept his pro- 
mise in the first of these stipulations 
may be doubted. In the last he was 
very punctual, and in a short time h$ 
rode as good a horse, and kept as good 
a table, as his landlord himself. 

It was a severe wound to Simon's 
proud heart, his expulsion from his 
paternal roof. *' In that house, sir/' 
said he' to me one day when we talked 



such as I never felt for any other of of the circumstance, '^ in that house I 



the fraternity, because he not only 
deemed it unnecessary to deny his 
poaching, but defended ith I love to 
see men act upon principle, even when 
the rectitude of tne proceedings may 
be questionable. 

I have said that Simon Lee was no 
favourite among his neighbours, and 
the only cause which I^have as yet as- 
signed for the fact is, that he was a 
poadier. Doubtless this had its weight 
But the love of poaching was, un- 
fortunately for himself, not the only 
disagreeable humour with which he 
was afflicted. There exists not within 
the compass of the four seas a prouder 
spirit than that which animated the 
form of Simon Lee. He never would 
accept a favour from any man ; he 
would not crouch or bend to the high- 
est lord in the land. Yet Simon was 
no jacobin ; quite the reverse. This 
was the genuine stubbornness, the 
hardy independence, which was wont 
to render an English peasant more 



drew my first breath, and I hoped to 
draw my last. For two hundred and 
fifty years have the Lees inhabited it ; 
and I will venture to say, that his ho- 
nour has not upon all nis lands a fa- 
mily who pay their rent more ptmc- 
tuafiy than we did, or one more ready 
to serve him, either, by day or night* 
Well, well, ihe landlord cares nothing 
for the tenant now, nor the tenant for 
the landlord ; it was not so when. I 
was a boy." 

I have been told by those who re- 
member his dismissal, diat Simon 
seemed for a time, after leaving his 
little &rm, like one who had lost every- 
thing that was dear to him. To hire 
another was impossible, for small farms 
were not to be had, and had the con- 
trary been the case, it was more than 
questioned whether he could' have 
brought himself to bestow the labour 
of a good tenant upon any besides the 
fields whicb he persisted in calling his 
own. Under these circumstances he 



trnly noble than the titled slave of took the cottage on the moor, as much. 



France or Germany, but which, un- 
fortonately, has of late years yielded 
to the fashionable agricultural system, 
and to the ruinous and demoralizing 
operations of the poor laws. Simon 
was the son of a man who had inhe- 
rited a farm of some thirty or forty 
acres, from a long line of ancestors ; 
who loved his landlord, as the clans- 
men of the Highlands were wont to 
love their chief, and who prided him- 
self in bringing up his children so as 



it was said, because it stood far from 
neighbours, as on any other account, 
and there he remained in a state oi 
perfect idleness, till his little stodk of 
money was expended, and he felt that 
he must either work or starve. 

Simon had married before the inhe^ 
riiance came to him; his eldest boy 
was able to run about when he left it. 
His fifth was weaned, when at length 
the proceeds of the sale being exhaust* 
ed, and all the little capital swallowed 



The Country Curate. Chap. I. The Poadker, 



CJ 



up, he fbund himself under the ne- 
oesfflty of looking out for a master. I 
have always heen at a loss to conceive 
why he snould have applied to the 
very man who displaced him, in pre- 
ference to any of the other parishion- 
ers, hut so it was. He requested, and 
obtained permission to cultivate as a 
hind, at dafly wages, those very fallows 
which he and his ancestors had so long 
tilled for their own profit ; and from 
every account, qo man could be more 
fkithMlv served than his employer, 
nor any lands more skilfully managed 
llian those which he ploughed. Was 
this the affection of a rude mind to 
inanimate objects, or what was it ? 

Time passed, and Simon's family 
increased upon him, year after year. 
Still he laboured on ; and though his 
wages were not, perhaps, competent 
to support a wife and eight children 
in comfort, (for there were originally 
eight of them,) still they made their 
wants square with their means, and 
80 kept above the world. But there is 
no struggling against sickness. It 
pleased God to visit him with a ma- 
lignant fever, of which every indivi- 
dual, from the father and mother, 
down to the infant at the breast, par- 
took, and from which three out of the 
number never recov^ed. Alas ! the 
rich man knows not what the poor 
man suffers, when disease takes up 
its abode in his dwelling. It is bad 
enough if his children be attacked; 
bad, very bad, because even then there 
is the doctor's bill to pay, and the lit- 
tle comforts to procure which the doc- 
tor may recommend as necessary to 
their recovery ; but when he himself 
falls a victim to the infection, when 
the arm upon which all depend is un- 
nerved by sickness, and the limbs 
which ought to provide food for half- 
a-dozen nungry mouths, are chained 
down to a wretched pallet — God for- 
give the rich man who knows of this, 
and leaves a family so situated to its 
fate! Such, however, was the case 
with Simon Lee and his household. 
For a full fortnight he was himself 
confined to bed. His wife caught the 
infection from him, and communica- 
ted it to the children. The little mo- 
ney which they had in the house was 
soon exhausted ; they lived for a while 
on the produce of their garden ; but 
at length nature rebelled, and Simon, 
after many a struggle, had recourse to 
the parish. I shau give the particu- 



lars of this application as tfaey wwe 
communicatee! to me by one of the 
committee. 

''We were sitting," said my in- 
formant, " as usual, of a Thursday 
evening, in the room allotted to us in 
the work-house. We had had a good ' 
many applications, for the typhus was 

Erevalent at the time, and we had re- 
eved several, when, on ringing the 
bell to see whether any more were 
waiting, to the astonishment of all 
present, in walked Simon Lee. At 
first we hardly knew him, he was ao 
wasted and so altered. But he located 
at us with the same keen glance with 
which he used to r^ard us when he 
was one of our number, and stood 
leaning upon his stick in silence. Our 
overseer at that time was Farmer 
Scratc)i, a man, as you know him, not 
remarkable for his kindness of heart, 
or liberality of disposition. ** What 
want you, Simon ? said he, ** surely 
you cannot be in need^of relief?" "I 
am in need, though," said Simon ;"I 
would not have come here, werenot my 
family starving." " We have no re- 
lief to give you," answered the over- 
seer ; " you ought to have taken bet- 
ter care of your money when you had 
it. I wonaer you are not ashamed ta 
come here like a common pauper ; you 
that used to grant relief, and not to 
ask it" Simon's blood rushed to his 
cheeks as the overseer spoke. He 
raised himself erect upon his sta^ and 
looking proudly at us, he turned upon 
his heel and walked away. ' This is 
the first time I have asked alms/ cried 
he, as he opened the door, ' and it 
shall be the last.' Simon- has had 
sickness in his family repeatedly since 
that time. I have known him be a full 
fortnight without work, yet he has 
never come to the parish since." 

I was a good deal struck and a£feet- 
ed by this story, so I took the first 
opportunity that offered of discussiiig 
the subject of it with Simon himseli* 
''It is all quite true, sir," said lie* 
" The overseer was harsh, and I was 

Eroud, so we parted." "And how 
aveyoudonesince?"askedI. "Why, 
bad enough sometimes," was the re- 
ply ; " but poor folks, you know, sir, 
cannot be nice. And 1 will tell you. 
It never entered into my head till I 
was on my way home from the com- 
mittee, tluit to be in want of ^pod, 
whilst the hares were eating my cab- 
bages every night, and the parmdges 

3 



19^6.3 



The Cmnirtf C&rate. Chap. I. The Poacher. 



9 



feeding not a tod from my door^ was 
no very wise act I poached, as you 
call it, to feed my children. I have 
never, killed game for any other pur- 
pose ; and whilst there is a head of it 
left, and I am able to catch it^ they 
shall not be beholden to the parish for 
a meal." 

I cannot help thinking thai the his-^ 
tory of Simon Lee, as far as it has yet 
been detailed, contains a lesson well 
worth the attention both of country 
gentlemen and farmers. Whilst the 
old system of land-letting continued, 
and every twenty or forty acres ci 
ground supported an honest family, 
it is very probable that the landlord 
received a less sum in the shape of crop 
or yearly rent, and that the yeomanry 
rode poorer horses, and kept poorer 
tables, than they do at present. But 
it is equally cettain, that the paupers 
to be relieved by their parishes then, 
came not up to one fiftieth part of 
those which are continually seeking 
and obtaining parochial relief now ; 
and if the increEised burdien thereby 
imposed upon the land be taken into 



account^ it will probably be found that 
agriculturists are not sudi decided 
gainers by the change as most of them 
ima^ne. Besides all which^ it must 
be manifest to all who have eyes to 
look round them, and minds to com- 
prehend what they see, that with the 
race of petty farmers has expired one 
of the finest and most virtBims classes 
of society. Their houses were the 
nurseries of good and faithful ser- 
vants; they were themselves hospi- 
table to the utmost extent of their 
means, and almost always honest. 
They were really, I say not upon prin- 
ciple^ but certamlv upon honouraUe 
prejudice, attached to the constitution 
in church and state. If, theuy the 
country have suffered in its moral 
character by their annihilatioq, he 
must be a very short-sighted politician 
indeed who imagines that tne injury 
thereby inflicted upon society can be 
at all compensated by any improve- 
ment in the art of agriculture^ or in- 
crease of the amount of produce nused 
from the soil. 



Chap. II. 



Having thus made my reader in 
some degree acquainted with Simon 
Lee and his family, I proceed at once 
to detail the circumstances which 
alone, when I took up the pen, I had 
intended to detail. Simon had been 
an inhabitant of his cottage oh the 
moor upwards of twenty years before 
I came to the parish. Tne fits of sick- 
ness already hinted at had come and 
gone by iong ago, and the habits con- 
sequent upon them wiere all entwined 
in nis very nature, so as that nothing 
could remove them. In fact, Simon 
had ceased to be r^arded by any of 
his neighbours with an eye of pity ; 
.ifaar his misfortunes were all forgotten. 
'Whilst his poaching propensity conti- 
:Qiiing in full vigour, all men spoke of 
'Um with abhorrence. 
' One of the first acts of a country 
clergyman, after he has settled him- 
self in the spot where his duties lie, 
is, at least ought to be, to call upon 
the whole of his parishioners, rich and 
poor ; and to make himself acquainted, 
as well as he can, with their respective 
characters and circumstances. In pro- 
secuting these inquiries^ he is, of 
course, liable to be imposed upon, ac« 

Vol.. XIX. 



cording as neighbours chance to IWe 
on good or bad terms with one an- 
ther; for it very seldom happens, 1 
am sorry to say, that the poorer classes 
speak of their acquaintances, except 
from the dictates of prejudice, either 
for or against them. Then every pru- 
dent man will hear all that is said, 
and remember it ; but he vrill use it 
only as the mariner uses his log-book ; 
he will take it as a gtiide in the mean- 
while, but make large allowances for 
the possibility of being deceived. In 
the case of Simon^ I found this cau- 
tion peculiarly necessary. To whom- 
soever I put a question respecting the 
inhabitant of the cottage on the moor, 
the answer was invariamy the same ;-~ 
" We know but little of him, sir, for 
he neighbours with no one ; but they 
say he is a desperate fellow." By tl*e 
farmers again I was told of his extreme 
insolence, whilst Sir Harry's, game- 
keeper, who attended my churoi, as- 
sured me ^^that he was the most 
troublesome rascal in all the county." 
So, thought I, here is a pretty sort of 
a person with whom I am to come into 
contact. But I remembered the les- 
son given to me by my good father, 

B 



to 



Hit Country Curate. Chap. 11. Tlie Poacher. 



CJan. 



Mid tinder the idea that he really was 
a very wretched character^ I resolved 
to spare no labour to ef{ect his reform- 
ation. 

The first time I visited Simon was 
in the month of October. As I was 
anxions to see and converse with the 
man himself^ I delayed my stroll till 
the sun had set^ and the hours of la- 
bour were passed ; then^ fully antici- 
iMiting a disagreeable interview, I sal* 
lied forth. Holf an hour's walk 
brought me to his hovel. I confess 
that the external appearance of it by 
no means induced me to doubt the 
evil rumours communicated from so 
many quarters ; but appearances^ I 
recollected, were often aeceitful, so I 
determined to suspend my Judgment 
till better grounds should be given for 
forming it. I accordingly knocked at 
the door ; a rough voice called to come 
in ; I pushed it open, and entered* 
Let me describe the coup <f(BU as k 
then fell upon me. 

Stepping over a sort of oaken ledge, 
perhaps three or four inches in height, 
I found myself in a large apartment, 
the floor of which was earthen, and 
full of inequall^iBS. The apartment 
in Question occupied the better part 
of the basement of the house ; tliat is 
to say, it took in the whole of the 
lower story, except a scullery and coal- 
hole, partitioned off at one of the ex- 
tremities, by a few rotten boards. 
There was no want of light here ; for 
though the better part of each win- 
dow was stufied, as I have already de- 
. scribed, there being two casements, 
besides a door on one side, and a like 
number on the other, besides various 
Assures in the wall, the crevices capa- 
ble of admitting the sun's rays were 
greatly more abundant than may usu- 
ally be seen in the English poor man's 
dwelling. The room was low in the 
roof, in proportion to its size. The 
walls, <nriginally white* washed, were 
of a dingy brown ; on the right hand 
as you entered, was the fire-place — a 
huge orifice— in the centre of whidi 
stood u small rusty grate, having a 
few sticks burning in it, and a pot 



woman, but now a hard-favoared dit# 
temly dame) leaned over the pot, and 
was in the act of brushing ofPsuch par* 
tides of a handful of salt as adhered to 
her palm. The children, one apparently 
about five, the other about seven yeara 
old, were rolling in the middle of the 
floor, in a state but few degrees remo- 
ved from nudity ; whilst a taller ourl, 
whose age I should guess about toir- 
teen, dandled an infant in her amu 
beside an opposite window. 

Such was the general aspect of the 
room, and the disposition of the family, 
when I enter^. With respect to fur« 
niture, I observed a small deal-table, 
four chairs, rush-bottomed once upon 
a time, but now greatlj^ in need of^re- 
pair, a stool or two, a httle arm-dudr, 
with a hole in its seat, and a long 
bench or form. But there were other 
implements to be seen more attractive 
than these. On the beam which ran 
through the noddle of the ceiling, was 
suspended a long fowling-piece ; there 
were cranks nemt it^iur two othesrs, 
but at preaeht they were empty. A 
game-bag, dyed au torts of colours 
with blood and grease, hung upon a 
nail in the wall opposite to me ; be- 
side it were two flew-nets, such aa 
fishermen use when they drag drains 
narrow streams; ana a third, of 



or 

longer dimensions, fit for use in a pond 
or lake, was thrown across the board- 
ing which separated the apartment 
from the coal-hole. Three or $Diir 
shot-belts dangled over the fire-place ; 
whilst several pairs of strong mudi- 
boots, leathem-gaiten, hob-nailed 
shoes, &c. &c., were scattered at rva^ 
dom in the difiTerent oomers of the 
room. 

The dogs, whose growling had been 
sufficiently audible even previous to 
my knock upon the door, no sooner 
eyed me, than with one accord they 
sprung to then: legs, barking angrily, 
and showed every tooth in their heaoit^ 
as if prepared topounce upon me. Th^ 
were, however, m admirable trainfa^ 
Simon had only to raise his finger, 
giving at the same time a low whistfef 
when they dropped down, as if they 
boiling above them. On one side of had been shot, and remained, belly t» 
this grate, and within the cavity of the ground, without moving limb or 
the cnimney, sat Simon. At his feet tail, during the whole of my visit. I 
lay a lurcher, a spaniel, and two rag- could not but pity the unfortmnate 
gal black terriers; and he himself country gentleman, into whose pre- 
was busy twisting a wire, no doubt sence these dogs, with their master, 
for some iisefnl purpose. His wife should make their way. 
(originally, I have been told, a pretty It was easy to discover from the 



1826.] 



7%» Cuuntry Curate Chap. II. T/ta Poacher. 



demeanour of all present^ that Simon 
had been little accustomed to receive 
visits from the minister of his parish. 
Both he and his wife appeared utterly 
confounded at thie vision which now 
stood before them*. The wire which 
he had been twisting was hastily drop* 
ped; he rose from his seat^ and unco- 
vering his head^ stood staring as if he 
had seen a spirit. In like manner, the 
housewife seemed rooted to the spot 
which she occupied when I raised 
the latch ; and tne noise of the very 
children ceased, as if by magic. I had 
actually advanced as far as the chim- 
ney-comer before my parishioner 
recovered himself, or found tongue 
enough to request that I would be 
seated. 

It was not long, however, before 
Simon and I found ourselves mutually 
at ease, and the prejudices under 
wliich I laboured respecting him be- 
gan to give way. He was civil, with- 
out meanness ; respectful, without ex- 
hibiting the most remote approxi- 
mation to cringing ; ^nd honestly, yet 
manfully, profess^ to be flattered by 
the marks of attention which I paid 
him. ^' You are the first minister 
that ever darkened these doors," said 
Jie ; " and the only ^ntleman that has 
condescended to notice old Simon Lee, 
since he became poor and friendless. 
I am glad to see you, sir. I liked your 
discourse last Sunday much ; but, 
thank God, want nothing from you 
except your good- will." 

*' And that you shall have, my 
friend," replied I ; '* but they tell me. 
Simon, that you do not lead exactly 
the sort of life that you ought to lead. 
How comes it, that mens tongues 
seem so free, when you are the subject 
of their talk ?" 

'* Indeed, sir," replied Simon, " that 
is more than I can tell. I know very 
well that I am no favourite here ; and 
why ? because I hate gossiping ; be- 
cause I fancy myself as good as any of 
them ; because I sometimes speak my 
mind, and will net always run into 
the mud when a farmer or his horse 
chances to be in the middle of the way. 
But judge for yourself, sir. Try me, 
and if you find me a thief or a rogue> 
then turn your back upon me." 

'^ But you are a poacher, Simon ; 
and poaching, you know, is against 
the laws of your country." 

*' So it is, sir," was the reply, " and 
I am very sorry for it : but is it against 



11 

the law of the Bible .^ I have read 
that book through more than once, 
and I cannot see that a poor man is 
there forbidden to kill the creatures 
which God jhas made wi}d, and given 
up as a sort of common possession to 
all. I know mall's laws are against 
me, and I have felt their severity be- 
fore now ; but I go by the law of my 
Maker, and as long as I do that, I 
care for no man." 

^' But God's laws are against you 
also. We must submit to every ordi- 
nance of man, for the Lord's sake ; and 
to the game-laws among the rest." 

"So I have been told," answered 
Simon ; " yet the very persons who 
persecute me most severely for occa* 
sionally killing a hare or a pheasant, 
are continually violating the laws in 
matters quite as serious. Why, there 
is not a magistrate upon the bench 
against whom I could not p^aeh, for 
purchasing India handkerchiefs for 
nimself^ and French gloves and stock- 
ings for his ladies. I do not blame 
them for that, not I ; I see no reason 
why all these things should not be 
within the reach of every man who 
can afford to pay for them ; only, I 
say, let them wash their own hands 
clean of breaking the laws of the land^ 
before they are so severe upon a poor 
man like mysdf, if he catch a head of 
game now and then to fill his ehildren'si 
bellies. Besides, if they had left me 
to rear these young ones on my father's 
ferm, they never would have found 
me cross them, let them do what they 
wouldu" ^ - 

The conversation bein^ continued 
iji this strain for some time, and no 
efiect produced upon the poacher's 
sentiments, I ffradually .changed tiie 
subject, and led him to talk of other 
things, such as I deemed most lifceljr 
to betray him into a disdosure of his 
real character in the common occur- 
rences of life. The result of the whole 
was^ that I rose to quit his house^ 
full rather of compassion than of any 
other feeling. I was conscious tliat 
he had in mm, at least the elements 
of a good member of society ; and if 
these were somewhat deranged by the 
prenonderancy of an illegai habit, J 
could not, in my own mind, avoid 
blaming for it, not only the proprietor 
of his little farm, who had so rudely 
ejected him from his home, but the 
parishioners at large, who originally 
drove him to it by the needless seve« 



13 



The Count r J/ Curate* Chap, II, Tfte Puacftcr. 



[^Jan. 



ritv of their manner^ when want and 
sickness first ui^ed him to apply for 
relief. I learned from him^ that nei« 
ther he nor his son had any regular 
employment. " People are afraid of 
us, ' he said, " God knows why ; and 
yet, sir, there is not one among them 
who will deny, that hoth Joe and I 
do a good day's work when we can 
get it, and that we are always read^ 
to undertake any job that may be of- 
fered." I was at the time in want of 
some one to assist me in laying out 
the grounds about the vicarage, and 
planting the church-yard ; I engaged 
Simon on the moment, and I never 
had cause to repent of the measure 
during the whole time that he was in 
my service. 

I have said, that Simon's eldest son 
had attained his twenty-third year at 
the period when our acquaintance com- 
menced. He was a well-grown, pow- 
erful youth ; not handsome, certainly, 
but straight, broad shouldered, full 
chested, and five feet ten inches high 
without his shoes. It was not often 
that Joe Lee mixed in the sports of 
the village youths; for, brought up 
as he had been, he was shy, or, as the 
neighbours called it, proud, like his 
father ; but, when he did join their 
meetings, there was not a lad among 
them all that could heave the bar, 
bowl, bat, or run against him. In 
wrestling, too, he was unrivalled ; and 
as to shooting, when Shrove Tuesday 
came round, Joe saved many a devo- 
ted dung-hill cock, by challenging his 
ix>mpanions to shoot at penny-pieces, 
or small shingle stones thrown into 
die air. Generally speaking, indeed, 
he never strove at any game without 
gaining the prisse, for he was prudent 
enough never to attempt anything 
of which he bad not some previous 
knowledge. 

It chanced that, about a year and 
a half after the interview above re- 
corded, the young men of the pa- 
rish met, as their custom was, on a 
certain holiday, to play their match 
at cricket, and to try their skill in 
foot-ball, racing, and other athletic 
sports. To these meetings, by the 
way, I never failed to give my coun- 
tenance. For the most part I stood 
by till one or two contests came to a 
close; and by thus proving to them 
that religion is no enemy to mirth, as 
long as it exceeds not tnc bounds of 
^floderation, I have good reason to 



believe that I put a stop to many a 
drunken brawl. Such meetings, at 
least, I was assured, had invariaUy 
ended, during my predecessor's time, 
in riot and intemperance ; in mine, I 
can safely say, that the instances were 
rare indeed, in which the slightest 
deviation from strict sobriety and good 
fellowship occurred. As ill luck would 
have itj however, a violent quarrel 
arose this day between Joe Lee and 
another person : and as the quarrel 
ended not where it began, but led to 
very serious consequences, it may be. 
proper to state how it originated, and 
to what height it was immediately 
carried. 

Our Squire had lately added to his 
establishment a new game-keeper, a 
blustering, hot-headed native of York- 
shire. This person having been worsts 
ed in a variety of games, in which he 
appeared to consider himself an adept, 
finally challenged any man upon me 
common to shoot with him, for a 
wager, at a number of sparrows which 
he had brought in a cage for the pur- 
pose. The challenge was accepted by 
Joe. The number of birds to be let 
loose was a dozen a-side, and the par- 
ties were to take the alternate shots, 
whether they chanced to be fair or 
cross. Both men were noted as ex- 
cellent marksmen — a great degree of 
interest was accordingly excited on 
the occasion ; and though the majority 
of those present wished well to Joe 
Lee, simply because he was a man of 
Kent, and not a Yorkshireman, there 
were not wanting numbers who back- 
ed the keeper to the customary extent 
of a pint, or a quart of ale. The pre- 
parations for the match were soon 
made — the umpires took thdr sta- 
tions ; and a trap being formed at 
the distance of thirty paces from the 
sportsmen, the sparrows were remo- 
ved to it from the cage, one by one« 

The first fire fell by lot to Joe, and 
it was successful, he killed his bird. 
The keeper was equally fortunate 
when his turn arrived. Thus they 
went on, displaying an extraordinary 
precision of aim, till the fifth fire came 
round ; Joe's took effect ; the bird at 
which the north-countryman shot, 
flew off untouched. A shout was of 
course raised by Joe's backers ; whilst 
tliose of his opponent were proportion- 
ably downcast. Itsconliappcned, how-» 
ever, that the rivals were again on an 
equal footing ; Joe missing, and the . 



issc.;] 



The Country CurcUe* phap* II, The Poarher. 



other killing. And now each had but 
a single charge reserved ; each, too, 

- had missed but once ; ' consequently 
each could count ten dead sparrows 
-for eleven shots. This fire must there- 
fore decide the match. You might 
have heard a pin drop upon the very 
grains, when the trap being raised the 
little bird rose in air, and Joe, with 
one 1^ advanced somewhat before the 
other, followed it with his gun. He 
£red. The sparrow soared up for a 
moment, and dropped perfectly dead, 
just within distance. I looked at the 
game-keeper at this moment, and ob- 
served that his knees trembled ; he 
was flurried beyond measure, and the 

' consequence was, that the shot flew 
harmless, and the bird escaped. In- 
stantly the shouts of the Kentish men 
rent the air, and I quitted them, hav- 
ing seen Joe, whose shyness and pride 
were both for the moment forgotten, 
elevated upon the shoulders of a couple 
of lustv youths, and commencing his 
triumphal march round the common. 
Perhaps it is to be regretted that I 
had ^ot remained amongst them a 
little longer ; had I done so, in all 
probability matters would not have 
taken the turn they did. 

Chagrined and irritated at his de- 
feat, the keeper mixed no more in the 
amusements of the day, but sitting 
down in a booth, swallowed large po- 
tations of ale and spirits, too often 
the resource of the uneducated classes 
against the pangs of disappointment 
or sorrow. As the liquor began to 
take effect, the man became quarrel- 
some. He accused Joe, who having 
successfully finished a foot race, rest- 
ed upon a bench near, with foul play. 
He insisted that the eleventh bird fell 

- out of bounds ; and being corrected in 
that particular by a reference to his own 
umpire, he changed his mode of attack 
for another annoyance. The poach- 
ing propensity of Joe's father, his 
pride, and his poverty, were thrown in 
the son's teeth. Joe bore it ; not with- 
out a struggle — ^but he did bear it- 
Encouraged^ probably, by the calm- 



13 

ncss of his rival, the keeper next be- 
gan to vent his spleen upon Joe's dog. 
One of the ragged terriers of which I 
have already spoken, belonged, it ap- 
peared, to Joe, and it seldom left his 
heel, let him go where he would. On 
the present occasion it lay beneath the 
form on which its master sat, perfect- 
ly quiet and iuoflenrive. ^'It is a 
d— d shame that such fellbws as you 
should be allowed to keep doss," said 
the surly keeper, giving at the same 
time a violent kick to the unoffending 
animal. " If I was master, I would 
have them all shot ; and by G— the 
first time I see that brute self-hunt- 
ing on our land, he shall have the con- 
tents of thi% piece in his stomach." 
Still Joe kept nis temper, and parried 
the attack the best way he could ; but 
his blood was boiling, and it only 
wanted a little more provocation to 
bring matters to an issue. '^ Will you 
wrestle a fall, you — ?" cried the 
keeper, rising and throwing off* his 
jacket. *^ With all my^ heart," ex- 
claimed Joe ; "and don't spare me, for, 
by the Lord, I don't mean to spare 
you." To it they went ; and after a 
few severe tugs the keeper was thrown 
heavily. He rose with considerable 
difficulty, and complained grievously 
of his head ; staggered, and fell again 
to the ground. Immediately some of 
the lads ran to his assistance ; he waa 
black in the face. They undid his 
neckcloth, threw water upon hito, 
but all to no purpose. His limbs 
quivered convulsively, his eyes open- 
ed and shut once or twice, a gasp, a 
rattle in his throat, and he was a 
corpse ! A quantity of blood gashing 
from his nose and mouth, gave evi- 
dence of some severe internal injury ; 
whilst the only word uttered by him- 
self, namely, ** My head, my head," 
seemed to imply, that a concussion q£ 
the brain had occasioned it. Let the 
injury, however, be where it might, it 
was a fatal one; for when the me- 
dical assistance arrived, which was 
promptly sent for, life was wholly ex* 
tinct. 



Chap. IIL 



As may readily be imagined, a ter- 
mination so awful to sports, begun, 
and heretofore carried on in the best 
possible humour, produced no trifling 
sensation among those who witnessed 



it. The question most keenly agita- 
ted was, how were they to dispose of 
the imfortunate perpetrator of the 
deed ? That he willingly killed his 
antagonist not one among them sup- 



14 



The Country Curate. Chap. HI, The Poacher. 



CJ 



poecci ; but there is a propensity in 
numan nature to regard the sheuder 
of man's bloody whether by accident 
or design, with abhorrence. He who 
but a minute ago was a favourite with 
fiW. the bystanders, became now an ob- 
ject of loathing to the majority. Whilst 
a few voices, therefore, called aloud to 
let the poor fellow go, hundreds were 
decidedly of opinion that he ought to 
be detained. As to Joe himself he 
never attempted to escape. Whilst 
the iate of tne fallen wrestler was in 
doubt, — or rather as Ions as his hurts 
were considered in no degree to en« 
danger his life, Joe kept aloof from 
him, and probably congratulated him« 
self on the extent of the chastisement 
which he had inflicted ; but when a 
i!ry was raised, " the keeper is dead," 
there was not an individual in the 
throng who appeared more anxious to 
falsify the rumour, by bestowing upon 
its object every attention in his power. 
Dead, however, the keeper was ; and 
Joe readily gave himself up to the 
parish constable, until the issue of 
the coroner's inquest should be ascer- 
tained. 

Several hours of daylight still re- 
maining, no time was lost in dispatch- 
ing a messenger for the coroner ; and 
as the office for this part of the county 
happened at the time to be filled by a 
Folkestone attorney, that gentleman 
speedily arrived. A jury was sum- 
* moned, witnesses examined, and the 
body viewed on the spot where it had 
ceased to breathe. There cannot be a 
doubt that a verdict of accidental 
death would have been returned, but 
for the unfortunate speech delivered 
by Joe previous to the commencement 
of the match — '^ Do not spare me, for, 
by the Lord, I do not mean to spare 
you." This sounded very like malice 
prepense ; and the fact, that the par- 
ties were at the moment in a state of 
hostility towards one another, furnish- 
ed strong ground of suspicion that, if 
there existed no design on either side 
positively to take away life, still each 
was resolved to inflict upon the other 
as severe a bodily punishment as it was 
possible to inflict. '^ Under these cir- 
cumstances, gentlemen," said the co- 
roner, ^' I see not how we can suffer 
this matter to end here. You must 
return a yerdiet either of murder or 
manslaughter, which you think pro- 
per. My own opinion is, that the lat- 
ter* will suit best with the state of the 
present afliur." It is said that the co-« 



roner was the identical attorney who 
had conductt'd all the ])rotiLCUtions hi- 
therto carried on against the Lees. 
Whether his judgment was warped by 
pr^udice, or whether he hoped to con- 
ciliate the good-will of tiie landed 
aristocracy by involving one membec 
of a detested family in trouble^ or 
whether he acted, as charity would 
dictate, in accordance with his own 
sense of duty, I cannot telL Certain 
it is, that a verdict was returned ac- 
cording to his recommendation, and, 
under the coroner's warrant, Joe Lee 
was removed to jail. 

It is needless to describe with mi- 
nuteness the circumstances which at- 
tended the youn^ man's imprisonment 
and trial. Neitner is it necessary to 
observe that the misfortune in which 
their son was involved gave to Simon 
and his wife the deepest concern ; 
more especially as they dreaded a de- 
gree of interference £rom certain high 
quarters, which they considered capaf 
ble of carrying all before it, even to 
the conviction of an accused person^ in 
defiance of the clearest evidence of his 
innocence. Simon and his wifb, how^ 
ever, only fell, in this respect, into the 
double error which freMjuently pos-» 
sesses the minds of the lower orders in 
this country. They groundlessly ima«r 
gined, first, that their betters would 
desire to pervert the course of justice, 
for the sake of furthering a selfish pur« 
pose — a crime of which some no doubt 
may be guilty, but from which the 
aristocracy of England are, as a body, 
entirely free ; and, secondly, they er« 
roneously conceive, that w^th and 
rank are able to overwhelm innocence 
and poverty — a calamity from which 
our glorious constitution efibctually 
guards us all. Had Joe Lee been ar- 
raigned before a bench (tf county magi- 
strates, it is just possible that his gene- 
ral character might have told against 
him ; but he was given over to be dealt 
with according to the judgment of 
twelve plain Englishmen, in whose 
eyes there really are some crimes more 
heinous than that of killing game with- 
out qualification, licence, or permis- 
sion. N or did the jury which tried his 
case disappoint my expectation. In 
spite of the formidable sentence which, 
in the view of the subject taken by the 
coroner, rendered a verdict of man- 
slaughter inevitable, Joe Lee was fully 
acquitted j and he returned home, after 
a^sojourn of a week or two at Maid- 
stone, to follow his former occupations. 



1826.3 



The Countrif Curate. Chap. lit. The Poacher. 



15 



I 



If the Lees had formerly been ob« 
jects of general dislike, they now be- 
came so in a tenfold greater degree. 
The game-keepers on all the neigh- 
bouring estates entered into dose al- 
liance with the tenantry, for the pro- 
tection, as it was said, of their mas- 
ters' property, but more justly, I be- 
lieve, to revenge the death of their, 
comrade. The formers, again, resol- 
ved to give neither work nor relief to 
characters so desperate ; and the very 
labouring classes shunned them, as if 
they had been polluted creatures, and 
a deadly infection rode upon their 
breaths. Simon and his family were 
not unaware of this. It had the ef- 
fect, not of softening or reclaiming, 
but of rendering them more ruthless 
than ever; and it was now pretty 
generally understood, that both fk^ 
ther and son were resolved to follow 
their vocation at all hazards; whilst 
strong, and even armed parties, were 
nightly abroad, for the purpose of 
intercepting them. It was in vain 
that I sought to reason with either 
party. The world would not give 
way to an individual; that individual 
would not give wav to the world : in- 
deed, I soon found that, by attempt* 
ing to make things better, I only 
made them worse, and weakened my 
influence over eadi of the contending 
factions. Matters at length [attained 
to such a crisu, that I anxiously de-* 
sired to hear of Simon's capture and 
conviction ; for I had little doubt that 
the latter event would be followed 
his banishment from the country; 
and I was quite sure, that nothing 
short of his removal would prevent 
;M)me act of desperate violence from 
being sooner or later ccfmmitted. A 
smgk month had bardv elapsed from 
the return of Joe out of prisdn, when, 
on wandering to Simon s cottage one 
morning, with the view of making a 
last effort to reclaim him, I found that 
my worst fears had been realized. 
Having knocked at the door several 
, times without receiving any answer, I 
' raised the latch, for the purpose of 
Instead of the loud bark- 
ing wljfch usually gave notice of the 
watchmmets H>f Simon's four-footed 
companions, a sort of broken growl, 
something between the sound of a 
bark and a howl, alone caught my 
ear. It was accompanied with a wail- 
ing noise — the poise of a woman weep- 
ing; but, except from these noises, 

there was no intimation that the house 



was inhabited. I stepped in. There sat 
Simon in his old comer, with his head 
bent down, and arms crossed upon his 
bosom ; of his dogs, only one was near 
him, the identical black terrier which 
usually accompanied his son ; and it 
lay upon the ground, with its tongue 
hanging out, and its limbs at fidi 
stretch, apparently in the agonies of 
death. Simon either did not, or would 
not, notice me. The wounded dc^, 
however, for on a nearer inspection I 
saw a desperate wound fai its flank, 
made an effort to raise its head, and 
repeated the melancholy growl which 
it nad given when 1 first stepped across 
the threshold ; but the head diopj^ 
again to the earth, and the sound oea- 
secL Still Simon took no notice. I 
went up to him, placed my hand or 
his shoulder, and called him by his 
name; he looked up, and in my life I 
never behdd such expression in the' 
human countenance. Agony, grief, 
rage, and despair, were all depicted 
there. His eyes were bloodshot, his 
cheeks pale as ashes; there was blood 
upon his garments, and his whole 
form was defiled with mud. Widi- 
out apparently knowing what he was 
about, he sprung to ms feet In a 
moment the hut-end of a gun was 
brandidied over me ; and, luud! I not 
quickly stuped back, it would have 
dashed my skull to pieces. As it was, 
the blow falling upon the unfdvta-- 
nate dog, put an end at once to its 
agonies. 

" Simon," said I, " what means 
this? Why lift your hand agsinst 
me?" The unhappy man starad at 
me for a moment / the savage expres* 
sion gradually departed from lus face, 
and, falling cbwn again upon his seat, 
he burst into tears. I know no roec- 
tade more harrowing than that of an 
old man when he is weeping. The 
grief must be deep-seated indeed, 
which vnrings salt tears from the eyes 
of such a man as Simon Lee ; and I 
accordingly trembled when I again 
requested to be made acquainted with 
the cause of behaviour so excnumii- 
nary, and so unlike that which I usu- 
ally met at his hands. 

" I thought you had been one of 
the blood-hounds, sir," cried he ; ''I 
thought you had tracked us to our 
very nome ; but go up stairs, go and 
you will see, for I cannot speak of it." 
I went up accordingly, and beheld, 
upon a miserable pallet, all that re- 
mained of the stoutest wrestler, the 



The Country Curate. Chap. III. The Poaclier, 



16 

fastest runner^ and the best shot in 
the parish. His mother was standing 
near him^ wringing her hands in piti- 
able agony; his Uttle brothers and 
sisters were clustered round him, and 
joining, some of them scarce knew 
why, in the lamentations of the pa- 
rent. I was much affected. *' How 
has this happened ?" asked I, hardly 
able to articulate. " Oh, my boy! 
my boy \" exclaimed the unhappy mo- 
ther, f' my first born, and the dearest 
of my children, has it come to this ? 
Was it for this end that I reared you 
with so much care, that ynu should 
die by the hands of common murder- 
ers f Look here," cried she, at the 
same time rolling down the bed- 
clothes, " look what they have done." 
I did look, and beheld a wide wound 
upon the left breast of the corpse, as 
if a whole charge of slugs, or swan- 
shot, had entered. The left arm, too, 
I saw was broken ; it was a horrible 
spectacle. I covered it up 2^ain. It 
was plain enough that a rencounter 
had taken place, during the preceding 
night, between some of the keepers 
and Simon and his son ;" and that it 
had ended fatally, the proof was now 
before me. I could not, however, in- 
quire into particulars just at that mo- 
ment, for the parents were too much 
overcome by the fate of their child to 
repeat them ;"but I learned them soon 
after. They were as follows : — 

About ten o'clock on the preceding 
night, the moon being in her first 
quarter, Simon and his son, each arm- 
ed with a fowling-piece, and attended 
by their dogs, set out, according to 
custom, in quest of game. As they 
had placed several snares in the woods 
of Denne in the course of the pre- 
ceding morning, they direeted tneir 
steps thither ; not only because they 
were tolerably sure of filling their 
bag in a moderate space of time, but 
with the view of ascertaining whether 
or not the wires had availed them. 
The distance was considerable. They 
walked seven good miles before they 
reached 'their ground, consequently 
midnight was hard at hand when 
they began to penetrate the preserves. 
Their object being to obtain as many 
head of game, and with as little noise 
as possible, they had taken care to 
provide themselves with brimstone 
matches, for the purpose of smoking 
such pheasants as they might happen 
to see at roost upon the boughs. They 
had succeeded in bagging a brace with- 



CJaA. 



out the necessity of firing, when the 
dogs starting a couple of hares^ botb' 
father and son dischai^ed their pieoea- 
almost at the same moment. All thjt 
occurred close to a particular comer 
of the wood where they had nlaced no 
fewer than three ^wires, at snort diB-= 
tances from one another. No doubt 
the wires had been observed ; and the 
keepers, rightly judging that ihoee 
who set them would return at night 
to take away their spoils laid them- 
selves up in ambush in their imme« 
diate vicinity. The report of fire- 
arms drew them instailtly to the spot; 
neither Simon nor Joe considered it at 
all derogatory to their dignity to ea-' 
cape, if they could ; sov seeifig three 
men advancing towards them, they 
tool^ to their heels. The keepers fc^^ 
lowed. Joe might have escaped with 
ease; Inlt his father, grown stiff by 
years, was unable to Keep up witn 
him. The pursuers gained upon him 
rapidly. " Run, Joe ; run, my boy," 
cried the old man ; " never mind me. 
Remember your mother and sistera; 
•run, and take care of them."— " ThiA 
I will not, father," answered Joe; 
" where you are, I am ; let them oome 
on." old Simon was by this time 
pretty well spent with running. He 
stopped to breathe : Joe stoppoi aLn; 
He endeavoured to load his gun, bat 
had only time to ram home the pow« 
der, when the assailants camb uik 
One of them made a blow at tbe oM 
man's head with a bludgeon, whieh, 
had it taken effisct, would have pat 
him beyond the reach of surgical aii ; 
but Joe caught it ere it fell. His lefk 
arm received it, and was broken. Still 
the right remained to him, and mik 
a single stroke from the but of his gun 
he laid the fellow fiat upon the eardK 
A desperate struggle now ensued be* 
tween the two remaining keepers and 
the poachers. Though powerless of 
one band, Joe was still a matdi fbr 
most men ; and Simon, having reoo* 
vered his breath, fought as u only 
half tlie load of years nad been 
his back. The keepers gave 
The sole object of tne Lees ~ 
cape, they abstained from 
them, and made the best 
for the high road, and along it to* 
wards their home. But they were not 

Eermitted to go unmolested. The 
eepers followed. By way of eheck- 
ing their farther advance, Joe anfbs^ 
tunately turned round and levdled 
his piece. He had hardly done to^ 




«' 



1686.;] 



3^< try Curate. Chap. III. The Poacher. 



ir 



when one of the i men fired^ and 
his gun heing loaaeu for the purpose 
with huck-uiot^ its contents made 
their way through the young man's 
clothingy and entered his chest. The 
wound was not^ however^ immediate- 
ly fataL " I am hurt^ fkther^" cried 
he ; ^* fly, and leave me to my fate." 
Another shot was fired while he was 
yet speakings which took effect upon 
the only dog that stuck to them. Wild 
with rage, old Simon would have load- 
ed his gun, and revenged his son or 
perished, had not the latter assured 
Aim that he was still ahle to proceed. 
By darting down a deep ravine they 
managed to evade the keepers; and 
€hen taking the most unfrequented 
ways, they made for the moor. But 
just as the light in theic cottage win- 
dow hecame discernihle, Joe's strength 
fbrsook him ; he reeled and fell ; nor 
was it without much waste of time^ 
and almost super-human exertions, 
^at the old man continued to drag, 
rather than carry him home. Poor 
Joe never spoke after. He was laid 
upon his hed in a state of stuoor, 
and ahout half an hour hefore day- 
hreak breathed his last. 

Such is a brief relation of the events 
that brought about the melancholy 
scene to which I was now a witness. 
From it I learned, that the blood upon 
Simon's gaberdine was his son's. The 
state of frantic sorrow, too, in which 
I found him, was sufficiently explain- 
ed, as well as the impulse which drove 
him to raise a murderous arm against 
any intruder; and though I could 
not acquit this old man of blame, 
though, indeed, I felt that the death 
of Joe was entirely owing to his law- 
less proceedings, I could not but pity 
him to a far greater degree than I con- 
demned him. I did my best to com- 
fort both him and the lad's mother ; 
bat my words fell upon inattentive 
ears, and 1 departed, much troubled 
in my own mind, and without having 
. the consolation to reflect, that I had 
in any degree lightened the troubles 
dT others. 

The affair, fatal as it was, never 
before a court of justice. It was 

,, of oourse, to the interest of Si- 

on, had he been capable of attend- 
ing to his interests, to stir in the mat- 
ter ; for he could not bring his charge 
home to any deflnite person, and the 
very attempt so to do must have in- 
Tcdred him in additional trouble* The 
fact, however, is, that Simon was ne< 

Vol. XIX. 




ver, from the hour of his son's deaths 
in a fit state to conduct any business, 
or even to take care of himself. His 
stubborn temper, if it could not bend, 
was at length broken. All his mis- 
fortunes, real and imaginary, seemed 
to press upon his mind with double 
violence, now that the child of his 
pride was taken away from him. I 
have myself seen him weep, at times, 
like a woman. Long after his wife 
had regained her composure, Simon 
was inconsolable; and the ravages 
made by sorrow upon his health and 
frame were many decrees more visible 
and more serious, man those which 
three score and three winters had ef- 
fected. Simon was an altered man. 
The sun and the net were laid aside, 
but toe spade and the hoe took not 
their place. At first he was deemed 
lazy; the parish refused to assist him ; 
he was dted before the magistrates, 
and committed to jail. Having re- 
mained there till the period of his 
sentence expired, he was again set at 
liberty. But of his liberty he made 
no good use. His very wife now com- 
plained of him. He would sit, she 
said, for hours at a time, with folded 
arms, staring into the fire. He seldom 
spoke either to her or her young ones ; 
and when he did, it was incoherently 
and wildly. At length he was miss- 
ing. He wandered forth one morning, 
unshod and bare-headed. In t\Sa 
plight he was seen to pass through 
the church-yard, resting for a minute 
or two on Joe's grave. But what 
became of him after no one can tell. 
He was never heard of again. By 
some it was surmised, that, under the 
influence of a crazed brain, he had 
wandered into a distant part of the 
country; and hence that, sooner or 
later, tidings of him would certainly 
arrive. By others it was insinuated, 
that he must have either thrown him- 
self from the cliffs into the sea, or 
fallen over and been destroyed. That 
the first report was groundless, an 
absence of five years, during which no 
intelligence of his destiny has reached 
his family, furnishes ample ground 
for belief; whether either of the lat- 
ter surmises be correct, I am ignorant. 
All that I know is, that he has never 
been seen or heard of in these quar- 
ters since the morning above alluded 
to ; and that his wife, and four sur- 
viving children, are now wholly sup-i 
ported ftom the poor's-rates^ 



ts 



Posthumous Letters (/ Cfiartes Edwards, Esq. No. VL C^JftQ* 



POSTHUMOUS LETTERS OF CHARLES EDWARDS^ ESQ. 

No. VI. 



London, IB- 
Well ! here I am, once more, in 
London. You saw my name among 
the " arrivals." — " Charles Edwards, 
Esq. from a tour !" They would have 
said as much, although I had come 
Arom Botany Bay, so that I drove to 

P ^'s Hotel with four horses ; and 

I won't be positive as to the fact of 
coming back — ^but I should not be the 
first WHO had set out from that house 
for such a destination. 

I staid one evening at Clifton, and 
posted from Bath upwards — the world 
certainly cannot match such travel- 
ling, for people who are in haste. Mar- 
rv r the same circumstances — (every- 
thing shows as new to me here as if I 
were an Esquimaux, or a Kamschat- 
can born, instead of an Englisman)^ 
but the same circumstances which 
combine to furnish the power for this 
rapid locomotion, make its adoption, 
how they exist, pretty nearly compul- 
sory. Farewell to the last incarnation 
of the eccentric, and adventurous — the 
scenes that inspired Smollett, and Far- 
quhar, and Fielding. It would be 
heavy work now to ride through Eng- 
land on horseback — putting up, every 
twelve hours, for tne night, at the 
close of the day's stage or journey ; 
and without even the chance of a sword 
drawn at the inn where you stopped, 
or a scuiHe with a highwayman (or 
a brace of footpads) before you got 
there. 

The joys which charmed the youth 
of our grandfathers, are departed ! 
Tliere are no people robbed in St Paul's 
church-yard, nor in Holborn, now. 
The " Paddington stage" is never 
stopped now (unless to deliver parcels, 
not once a-year !) instead of being 
plundered regularly every night, and 
the coachmau stripped to his shirt, 
and so set upon his box again — some- 
times without any shirt — as it used to 
be. There has not been a burglary, 
that is, not a proper burglary — the 
people tied back to back and put down 
in the coal-cellar, while the house was 
gutted, and so on — scarcely within my 
recollection. Nor a fine young thief — 
at least nineteen times escaped from 
Newgate — of " five-and-twenty, or 
thereabouts," taken at such a place as 



" Hockley in the Hole," — ^indeed there 
is no sucn place — with three brace of 
pistols, his nair in papers, and a hun- 
dred guineas in his pocket ! And^ as for 
wild, solitary journeying, by bridle 
paths, over mountains and through fo-i 
rests, to muse along at a foot pace in ; 
scanty luncheons by the side of a river, 
or under the shade of a cork-tree ; cot« 
tage and convent up-puttings, or any 
other of the casualties that to you and 
me, in earlier and better days, used t» 
make travel delightful ! Mail-coaclies 
forsake us! the whole hundred and 
twenty miles of road from London to 
Bristol is bui one great high street, 
now, almost with houses upon both 
sides of the way ; cursed with turtle, 
gas-light, horse patrole, excellent inn, 
turnpike at every half mile, and every 
other nuisance of wealth and regu« 
larity. 

In fact, I look at England now, 
something with the eye, though not at 
all with the heart, of a foreigner— Klid 
it never strike you, bating, of course, 
the loss of national strength which 
unfortunately would accompany such 
a change, that the people here would 
be happier if they were Hot quite so 
enlightened as they are; and still 
more so, if there were not quite so 
many of them ? What say you to a 
good rummaging plague again — such 
as that treated of in the veritable and 
moth-eaten tome that you have sent 
me ; and which (do me the favour to 
say so much, with my profound re- 
spects, to your lady sister) shall be 
returned, translated in the best way 
that I can make it out — a plague of 
purpose, and which, as Fletchers 
grave-digger suggests it, should take 
the apothecaries and physicians first, 
that there might be no help left for 
money ? 

London alone, for a genuine stran- 
ger, the work of half a life would 
hardly be sufficient for him to exa- 
mine it. The mere new matter which 
has arisen since I was here last — ^in 
six years— is such a survey to go 
through, that I must die very slightly 
informed as to three-fourths of it. 
^' Improvement" — or, at least, hicrease 
of extent, will make it a post-stage 
from one end of the town to the other> 




1826.]] Posthumous Letters of Charles Edwardi, Esq* No. FL 



19 



very shortly. This is ahsolute— co- 
ming in from Axbridge, I met the 
place a full mile west of where I left 
It — a mile on the road between Ty- 
burn turnpike and Bayswater. 

Works that^ but yesterday^ were 
the business of years to think of^ are 
projected now^ and completed^ almost 
between to-day and to-morrow. Here 
is a bridge built that has cost half a 
million I Paying about as much^ I un- 
derstand, as may keep it in repair. 
And yet nobody seems to sufier ; and 
another, a wilder speculation than the 
first, at the east end of the town, is 
undertaking. 

Luxury makes laudable progress 
too — not among the people of rank- 
perhaps It could not well get much 
farther than it has got with them — 
and present circumstances seem likely 
rather to abate it — ^but the second 
class in the metropolis, the de facto 
traders, are pressing harder than ever 
upon the rich, and driving them fast 
into projects of exclusion and barri- 
Cide. Clerks now keep actresses; 
linen-drapers speak Italian ; and 
tailors keep hunting-horses, and go to 
the French play. This it is that pulls 
down the coffee-houses, into which all 
may walk, and sets up the clubs, into 
which even he who would eat a twen- 
ty-shilling supper cannot enter. And, 
for the lower ranks, as regards exter- 
nal appearance, literally, now, you 
can't even guess at the condition of 
any female in London by her dress,— 
there is not a woman-servant in this 
house where I am living, who does 
not go abroad, on her hohday, in vel- 
vet and feathers; and in sudi attire 
altogether as the wife of a man of mo- 
derate income, very often, could hard-* 
ly hope to compass. 

So, indeed, tor the gentleman ; in 
style and dress, no man ever looks 
like what he is ; until at last, venture 
to seem anvthing but a chimney- 
sweeper, and (in a strange neighbour- 
hood) you run good chance to be set 
^own for an impostor. As for '' Cap- 
tains," the island is peopled with them. 
I can find no dignitaries (except now 
and then a ^^ Major"^ else. Public 
exhibitors are getting mto importance 
too ; I saw a person Uiat keeps a show- 
box somewhere in the Strand, so ex- 
treme the other day, in boots and 
mustachoes, that I learned his quali- 
ty^ by asking (in admiration) to what 
corps of Hungarians he belonged! 



Here is a boot-maker, last week, has 
married a ward in Chancery! some 
ex- tailor's only joy, with fitly thou- 
sand pounds — has been in prison— » 
" consented to make settlements"— 
and now backs boxers — drives tandem 
— and is a ^* character" ''upon town." 
Another fellow, that I used to buy 
canes of in Oxford Street, across a 
counter'^I saw at the Opera, dressed 
like a Pandour ! he is a blackleg for- 
sooth, and will be hanged, I dare 
say — to the emulation of ev«ry other 
stick-boy about St James's ! 

Make allowance for the fact, that 
we all, at some time, come to say at 
much; and, even then, — ^things did not 
go thus in my day. There has been 
an advance in the imposture, as well 
as in the importance, of the country : 
an accession to its impudence as well 
as to its strength ; an increase of busi- 
ness scarcely more at the Bank than 
at the Old Bailey, effected within the 
last twenty years. The people are 
fonder of show than they used to be^ 
less jealous, a great deal, of the work- 
house ; and a spirit of thinking — act- 
ing — only with reference to the pre- 
sent, runs more .than it did through 
alliihe arrangements of the commu- 
nity. 

We build — to a degree perfectly lu- 
dicrous — only for the hour — nei^h^ 
bourhoods rise up like fairy cities^ 
and fall down, within the time that 
they formerly took in being set about. 
Your new nouses are showy; the 
fancy of the day calls them tasteful ; 
and there is not much chance of their 
standing long enough to allow them 
to go out of fashion. You get every- 
where a whitewashed front— plate* 
glass windows — folding doors, and 
gilded cornices— a spiral staircase, that 
you risk your life every time you ga 
up— and a drawing-rootn, that stands 
in your lease, with a clause, that you 
shan't attempt to dance in it — ^but, 
for a single drcumstanee of conv^ 
nience or accommodation— a doset^ 
a recess a foot deep — there is not 
such a thing frmn the top of the 
building to the bottom ! Your 
house — that is the object— must 
stand upon no ground ; your garden 
—stabling— offices— there is not a 
stall in which a horse can torn round 
••—are all cut, and carved, and econo- 
mical to an inch ; your bed-chambers 
will be low and inconvenient; your 
cellars full of water, (for they nave 



so 



Potthutnoui Letters of Charles Edwards, Esq. No* VL Z^^* 



found out that it is very Bod nonaensc 
indeed, now, the laying a '^ founda« 
tion") ; and your hack windows — at a 
rent that is perfectly facetious to talk 
ahout — will look upon a churchyard, 
a court filled with old-clothesmen, or 
a disreputahle alley. 

The same quahty of spirit— care- 
less of the future^ — ^anxious only to he 
great (or seem so) in the present — in 
an increased degree actuates the tra- 
der. A hotcher, without common stock 
of thread and needles — six yards of 
sky-hlue drugget only in his shop, and 
sixteen starving children squalling in 
his ** hack parlour" — ^will stiU be Gros 
Marchand ; — take a house in the 
** Quadrant," or the ^^ Arcade ;" write 
himself up '^ Army Clothier" for a 
month, and go into the Gazette, as 
^^ Spedal Tailor to the King's Mon- 
key." And such places as these 
*^ Quadrant" houses are ! So very 
foppishly gay and pretending in their 
exterior ; within dark, narrow, mean, 
and thrust (behind) upon every com- 
fortless, and vile propinquity. Chan- 
ging tenants one'nalf ot them, (not to 
speak of those who run away,) regu- 
liurly four times a-year. Empty three 
months in every twelve ; but pro^lu- 
cing a most disproportionable price du- 
ring the other nine ; for the failure 
of eleven speculators nowadays — Cou'- 
rage, mes amis ! — never deters him 
who should make up the dozen, 
/^hen all these people deal in the 
vice of " Furnished Lodgings" too ; 
making themselves, where they should 
(if vain and impudent) be free and 
independent too— wilfully servants to 
every coxcomb who is casting away 
the little subsistence he has, so that 
his tawdry foppery may but contribute 
to the maintenance of their own. An 
auctioneer, or attorney in small prac- 
tice, who could afford to call a reason- 
able dwelling his own, will let a train 
of insolent lacqueys into his house, a 
xiotous lad their master, and perhaps 
a limited seraglio; for no bribe but 
that the creature may put his '^ name'* 
upon a door in '' George Street, Ha- 
nover Square," and give ^' parties" in 
gilded rooms to brother *' beaten 
things," when the rightful occupant 
is away. 

Uude habeas qucerit nemo I but have 
(in London) now you must — that's 
absolute ! Mo matter that you ask no- 
thing ; tliat's not sufficient ; you must 
not be poor. Dedicate your whole 
life to tlic study of our pleasures ; 



take advantage of our wants or of oar 
vices ; minister, with a large capital, 
to our very meanest necessities ; but, 
some way or other, see you get coun« 
try-houses, and carriages — ^be a sheriff 
or a baronet, or dont dare to show 
your face. Then away all start, one 
against the other ; everybody promul- 
gates the devil's right (prescriptive) to 
the hindmost ; the marvel to any crea- 
ture, who has lived where men are 
contented with a little, is how bo 
much is made, and out of such seem- 
ingly small game, and by so many ! 

And it is a curious picture of the 
condition and habits of the country—- 
a record which, kept five hunclred 
years ago, would be more valuable 
now than all the histories together 
that we have in print — the common 
newspaper which comes into the world 
every morning at six o'clock, and lies 
upon our breakfast-table — and always 
full too, that's the strangest problem, 
regularly by nine. The whole world, 
take away alone America, possesses 
nothing like an approach to ttie same 
document. A foreigner finds it diffi- 
cult to comprehend the daily amount 
of the actual domestic occurrence— 
the rapes, murders, forgeries, '^and 
all other interesting mtell^nce," 
which the metropolis afibrdi^as I 
saw a Sunday placard specifving the 
contents of a paper the other day. 
But the real curiosity is in the page of 
advertisements-- the master-key whidi 
this furnishes to the state of Eng- 
land — of Europe — almost of the world. 

The uncountable variety of callings 
and speculations that appear — some so 
great ; some so apparently contempti- 
ble ; and yet all opening mines of 
riches to so many ! One column an- 
nounces the preparation of a hun- 
dred ships, all ready to sail in- 
stantly, almost for as many difier- 
ent ports in different quarters of the 
globe. The next oiGfers — " Steam- 
packets to Richmond," " every Sun- 
day morning at nine" — " Refresh- 
ments on board," — ^and '^ Two and 
sixpence each passenger." A third 
sets out with the word " Accommo- 
dation !" — " Any sumi — " from two 
hundred pounds to ten thousand !"— 
ready to advance for the convenience 
of noblemen and gentlemen at a mo- 
ment's notice." And at the top of the 
fourth, under the same title — '^ Ac- 
commodation" — ^youfind that " Ladies 
whose situations require a temporary 
retirement" may hear of " An airy 



I'dMO Poiihumoui Letters of Charles Edwards, Esq, No. Vh 



ti 



fdtuatuKi/' and '' the strictest secret 
ay," by applying at " No. 34, next 
door to the grocer's^ in James Street^ 
Gray's Inn Lane." " Education" 
tempts you in ever}r shape; from — 
*' Yorksmre," at ** Sixteen guineas a- 
year," where there are '* no extras or 
vacations/' and " Fare by the waggon/' 
only L.l^ l«s., to— "i2i« in UrheV"-^ 
** Dr Dolittle's establishment"— 
" Grosvenor Place"— and " Graduate 
of Cambridge/' at ^* two hundred." 
And^ if you turn to the next page^ 
and have only the happiness to be in- 
sane^ you will see that the ^^ Tender- 
est attention" is paid to '^ Valetudina- 
rians^" at ** Straight WaistcoatLodge/' 
between Somerstown and the Dust- 
grounds at Battle Bridge ; '^ Refer- 
ences of the first respectability" to 
persons who have been raving; and 
*-* Private families" accommodated with 
^^ keepers" upon reasonable terms^ 
** by uie day, week, month, or year." 

And all these fierce competitors for 
preference, in their thousand and one 
peculiar occupations and capacities — 
the projector upon India government, 
and the improver upon India soy— 
the companies in Bridge Street, who 
think of nothing but assuring life, and 
the undertakers in Fleet Market, who 
thrive onW upon its extinction— 'the 
draper, who founds himself entirely 
upon '^ Te9ti thousand pair of warm 
Witney blankets," and the perfumer, 
whose hope on this side the grave is 
only to ensure " Universal ease and 
comfort in shaving" — ^the patent pen- 
maker, and the patent pin-maker — the 
mangle-maker, and the spangle-maker 
— the dealers in spring-guns, and in 
pop-guns— perigord pies, and artificial 
eyes — sell you a mango, dance you a 
fandango— large Twelfth cakes, no- 
body but Farfance makes — Paris stays 
—raise the high-ways. These millions 
are but the few who court popularity, 
at a peculiar expense, and through 
one particular mc^imi I 

Tney are not the same as, but over 
and above, the decorators of the dead 
wdls of the town, posts, obelisks, 
empty houses, and scafibldings ; who 
address themselves to the more busy 
crowd who have not time to read 
newspapers, and who can only pursue 
their researches, in pursuing their 
daily perambulations. — '^ Matrimonial 
joys*'—" Suits for little boys"— 
** Teach the deaf and dumb"—" Great 
reductions in brandy and rum" — 
*^ Man taken up on suspicion of stcal<« 



ing !"— •* Tooth pulled out by Mr 
Tv^well, without feeling^'—" Porta- 
ble gas"—" Wild ass"—" Poison rats" 
— " Re-beavered hats" — " Clergy- 
man's widow in great distress' — 
'^ New crapes and poplins, for sum* 
mer dress.' There is no spot on earth, 
I believe, certainly none that ever I 
have visited, where a man can get all 
he wants, and with so little loss of 
time or asking for, as in London. 

For the very thirst of gain, in fact, 
which makes us merciless and rapa- 
cious, completely ensures every one's 
setting his " money's worth," and in 
his own way, too, for his money. If 
you only want a ride that costs a shil- 
ling, you have a whole ** stand" of 
hackney coachmen, threatening each 
other's lives which shall sell it to yon. 
If you have ten miles to go into the 
country, the vehicle that carries you 
for half-a-crown, is, in truth, drawn 
and driven in a stjle ten times beyond 
the state of an Italian marquis. Would 
you dine ? — ^from fifteen pence, to two 
guineas — ^in any quarter — ^in five mi- 
nutes you have it on the table. If you 
want a coat, the fashion changes ^-^q 
times before you can determine which 
of the five hundred professors, who 
**• unite elegance with economy" for 
'* prompt payment/' best deserves your 
attention. If you have a complaint, 
a thousand remedies— every one in- 
fallible — are published in all the shop 
windows — ^nay, on men's backs about 
the streets — for your particular salva- 
tion. And, after they have killed you, 
which every one of them can do ten 
times over, so it is a matter of perfect 
indifference which you pitch upon, 
there is a fight between the Wooden- 
coffin Company and the Iron, in which 
material you shall be buried. 

Then come the modes in which 
these speculators conduct their pur- 
suits, and which are little less mira- 
culous, if there could be any wonder in 
what one sees every day, than their 
variety, or their numbers. One man 
makes himself a landed proprietor 
by curing corns ; a second " purdlia- 
ses perpetually," because he grinds a 
thousand children annually into cot- 
ton stockings ; a third only repeats a 
lit — the same lie — a given number of 
times, and arises a lord mayor. False- 
hood, persisted in long enough— even 
those who know it is false cannot help 
dealing as if they believed it. They 
know it is a lie, but receive it as a 
metaphor, a figurc; expressing not that 



22 



Poiihunious Letters of' Charla Edwards, Esq- No* F/» C^^n* 



which it outwardly purports to ex- 
press, but something else : as, for a 
famLUar instance, the cries of fishwo* 
men, " Live cod" — " Fresh salmon," 
&c. are understood to imply those 
commodities, not *' live," or " fresh," 
but six weeks old. Thus, '^ Grervais 
Chardin — Parfumeur — h, la cloche d*- 
argent — Rue St Martin, a Paris" — 
that single individual has supplied 
half England with French pomatum 
for the last forty years — ^the cover ne- 
ver once changed — which all England 
all the while knows to have been ma- 
nufactured in Tooley-street Ten to 
one, nevertheless, if there are not ma- 
ny who would leave off buving that 
pomatum, if it were offered tor sale as 
English, and with the real maker's 
name upon it. 

Two other rogues, in the city, have 
been making a laughable experiment 
enough upon the force of truth, or 
puff, between them ; and, I believe, 
the matter is to end in an application 
to the Court of Chancery ; but, for 
the time, the impostor has carried the 
day. One of these people, who are 
both hair-dressers, and live opposite 
to each other, near the Exchange, is^ 
or was lately — thriving, by selling the 
fat of bears as a kind of cosmetic. 
The other (his neighbour), knowing 
that it was just as good to sell any 
other material in pots, with '^ Bear's 
Grease" for a label, as genuine bear's 
grease, immediately started vdth the 
same ^^ pots," fillea with an inexpen- 
sive unguent, in opposition. The true 
dealer, who keeps forty Hve bears in 
his cellar, and has himself taken up 
once a-week before the sitting alder- 
man, as a nuisance, by way of adver- 
tisement, killed a bear upon this, 
hung him up whole in full sight in 
his shop, and wrote in the window, 
<' A fresh bear killed this day !" The 
impostor, who had but one bear in all 
the world, which he privately led out 
of his house, after dark, every night, 
and brought him back (to seem like 
a new supply going in) in the mom- 
ingy continued his sale, writing in his 
window, ** Our fresh bear will be kill- 
ed to-morrow." The original vender 
then — determined to cut off his rival's 
last shift— kept his actual bears, de- 
funct, with the skins only half off, hang- 
ing up always at his door, proclaimed 
all bear's grease sold in '^ pots" a '^ vile 
imposture;" and desired his customers 
to " walk in," and sec theirs, ** with 
their own eyes, cut and weighed from 



the animaL" This seemed eondusivc 
for two days ; but, on the thirds the 
opponent was again in the field, with 
a placard, '^ founded on the opinion 
of nine doctors of physic," that oear't 
grease " obtained from the animal in 
a tamed, or domestic state," would not 
'* make anybody's hair grow at alL" 
In consequence of which he " has 
formed an establishment in RuB8ia» 
(where all the best bears come from,) 
for catching them wild, cutting the 
fat off immediately, and potting it 
down for London consumption." And 
the rogue actually ruins his antago- 
nist, without going to the expense of 
a bcar's-skin, by writing aU over his 
house, " Licensed by the Imperial 
Government" — " Here> and at 
Archangel." 

^^ This is the state of man" — at least 
\nth us — or something very like it ; 
but yet I doubt, whether such a scheme 
ef toil and trouble is the best mode of 
getting through life, after all. The 
million bom under such a systenr 
have no time to live; they labour for 
twenty-three hours in acquiring a cer« 
tain quantity of wealth, which they 
dissipate in some folly — which peri 
haps, at last, they care as little as it 
deserves for — in the twenty-fourth. 

As, to be safe, we must be great, I 
admire the country — am proud of it ; 
but it is too i)opulous — too much a 
town throughout — there is too much 
free speaking, and far too little free 
footing in it, for my indolent, vaga« 
bond disposition to be pleased with. 

From the Land's End to John o' 
Groats, every inch of ground that a 
man walks upon, in England, must 
belong to himself — or to somebody 
else. If you shoot, the poacher has 
ten times more true enjoyment of the 
chase than the lord can have; for 
what can you kill but that which la 
your own already, or that whidi your 
neighbour has reived, and paid for as 
fully as he does his turkeys ? It is a 
poor apol(^ for field sporty to breed 

Eheasants, fed, and aunost marked 
ke cattle, at a cost of five guineaa 
a-piece ; and then get a party, on an 
appointed day, to sit in arm-chaira 
and slaughter them, a hundred upon 
an acre ! There is no true hunting 
now in England, but the hunting of 
three per cents, and of men. 

There is no spot where you may 
go and wander — (I can understand, if 
not defend, the Conqueror's vmkhig a 
ibrcst in Hampshire!) — wander for 



1836.21 ^ 'lumous JLeuers oj i^naries aawaras, usq* iw. vi. 



xj 



ilays^ and almost weeks, upon ground 
which is> practically^ common to all ; 
which tiiere are not people enough in 
the country to infest, and whicn no 
person thinks it worth his while to 
enforce a title to. Which way will 
you turn to get out of the haunts — 
out of the troublesome presence— of 
dvilization and of men ; to fancy your- 
self, if you had a whim to do so^ for 
one hour, r«Qly lord of the creation ; 
and not find some ^^ hardwareman," 
from Sheffield, with a steel-trap, or a 
spring-gun, and a board b^inning, 
•' Take notice !" and ending with, 
" The utmost Rigour of the Law" 
—(all the boards stuck up in the island 
seem to have been written by the same 
painter)— your rival, or more than 
your rival, in empire ? 

Where will you show your head in 
any comer of the kingdom, however 
remote, without finding some one ly- 
ing in wait, open-mouuied, to devour 
you ? I happened two days ago, upon 
business, into the White Horse Inn, 
in Friday-street, Cheapside; and, even 
there, I found a swindler of fashion- 
able appearance, regularly ensconced, 
and living in the house — living in the 
atmosphere of Friday-street — should 
not thrift after thisbe blessing?-— ready 
to catdi clothiers, and other innocents, 
as they arrived by the " heavy coach" 
in town. 

'And the lawful dealing is not much 
better ! — the danger of being made a 
prey of — ^tickled, unsuspectingly, by 
some woman — they have a fine fin- 
ger at such doings — is one of the 
uttle cares that haunt me now. It 
is not the value of what is taken 
out of one's pocket, but the rage at 
being patted on the back while the 
pocket is picked. I am taking mea- 
sures to have it understood here that I 
am poor, rather than otherwise ; that 
the Edwards' estate was much dip- 
ped; that my father's debts are at least 
double what, in fact, they are ; and I 
wish — everybody knows you are rich, 
and so you can't be worse off — I wish 
you would put it about that you have 
won a large sum from me at play* 

I shall keep a small establishment in 
town — that I am fixed on. The house 
that I have taken in Park-lane is. a 
nutshell. One chariot — and that shall 
serve for travelling, and all ; nothing 
expensive but my horses — and, of 
those, not one running one, believe me. 

And, after all, I am not quite sure 
that I don't sometimes look back a 



Uttle to my poor half-tumble-down 
Quinta at Condeixa; with the deli- 
cious weather, (except the rainy season, 
certainly) — and the solitude— 4nd my 
fine gardens — ^and the glorious woods 
and mountains which surrounded me 
— and, still more, the absence fronx 
observation ! — that there was none to 
look at— none to comment on— or in- 
terfere with me. I could get on horse- 
back with my gun, and my single ser- 
vant, throw my reins on my horse's 
neck, as freely as though I had been 
a real knight-errant, roving in the de- 
sert ; and it mattered not which way 
I went, for there was room enough to 
ride without harming any man's pro- 
perty ; and, if I rambled to a villago; 
a dozen miles off, where a priest andl 
a barber probably were the only tra^ 
ding characters, and neither of thesejt 
perhaps, had ever stirred, the one be^. 
Yond his native hills, the other beyonA 
his native province — ^if-I came only 
where there was a farm-house, I waii 
sure of a welcome — ^if where there wais 
an apothecary, he was a man of science^ 
and a traveller, especially a foreigner, 
was an important personage to him-^ 
I had a chat — the news of the country 
-—a supper and a mattress if I would'— 
and a promise to visit me, cheerfully, 
with all his family— half a dozen wo- 
men, riding (as women should ridle) 
upon asses — ^in return. And then, at 
home, there was my garden, my stable, 
and, if I made a vile noise witli (the 
guitar sometimes, no one took ithe 
trouble to laugh at me. And there 
was a game at chess, and a walk, and 
a discussion upon faith, or miracles, 
or witchcraft, on the crops of the sea- 
son, or the ravages of the war, witl^ 
the Padre. I was a happier »an> and 
a far more important one, with my 
limited income at Condeixa, (though 
I did now and then long for some 
change,) than I shall ever be again. I 
quitted my six years' residence with 
regret, sSTd, I think, regretted, for I 
had the power of doing good very 
easily, and I did no great mischief, 
at least never any wantonly. If I were 
going back to-morrow, I would go only 
just as I was ; no desire to return tri- 
umphant — splendour and insult, and 
all that detestable feeling, with which 
I am going to favour a few of my old 
acquaintances in this quarter of tlie 
world very shortly ! 

But this is over, and your *' priva- 
cy " is but the darling nurse of fidse 
self-estimate and affectation neither. 



S4 



I'oithumons Letters of Charles Edwards, Esq, No. VL 



CJ«]i» 



fi 



I must bastle with the crowds and find 
Boxnething to do in it^ though, as to 
what^ I find it easier to question than 
come to any satisfactory conclusion. 
There is a great change, I don't know 
whether you observe it,in thefacesunon 
the pave, since we were here togetner 
last. And, contrary to the natural 
progress of things, it is the young 
countenances chi^y that have disap- 
peared. 

Some of our coffee-room acquaint- 
ance have tdcen up, and married. One 
or two— they make a sad history alto- 
gether — ^have been taken up ; and nar- 
rowly escaped the other lot arranged 
for man by destiny. Several are lite- 
prally b^gared — starving in gaols and 
ridewcSb-^whom I recmlect, and you 
ust recollect also, rioting in this very 
ouse. Some have married prostitutes^ 
~d eat the '' allowances " of fools as 
I, and blackguards almost as filthy, 
Aa themselves. Many rub on still, and 
esntrive to be seen in the circle by a 
little game, where anybody will bet, 
id a little swindling, where anybody 
ill trust. And some of the elder and 
uter thrive by a sort of — seeing 
yiung gentlemen fairly through their 
property — ^lacqueying, bullying, and 
noting, for the worst of the new be- 
ginners. 

In truth, it would seem odd, I dare 
say, that a man should turn virtuous 
for such a currish reason as that other 
pecple chose to be knaves as well as 
niinself ; but I do begin to think, since 
I have been this time in London, that 
disrespectabihty is not so desirable as 
it used to be. With all the advantages 
which large means afford; and the 
greatest, as I take it, is tlie means 
they give of shutting out the world 
•—of escaping always from the offence 
that a compulsory commixture with 
any class or portion of society reflects 
upon you — With all the power which 
they give of commanding this soli- 
tude; and, moreover, that constant 
leisure, which is almost worth the pri- 
vacy — ^it is much ! and, in Engliuid, 
wealth only can supply it— With all 
the means of having no such thing as 
an obligation upon one for years toge- 
ther ; of pursuing any absurdity which 
whim, passion — no matter what — sug- 
gests, without hinderance or impedi- 
ment ; of finding all the petty incon- 
veniences of life smoothed down to 
your hand— every knave meeting you 
with a delighted smile — you know he 
would cut your throat, if he could — 



but he can't— cmd^ in the metntliiie, 
the dog is so silken, and lo obedienC 
—and that very same ready comptt* 
ance which is intdertble in people 
whom one would desire to value, ie lo 
excellent in the minor minister* to 
comfort, from whom we only expect 
that they should do, without carioff 
for the motive ! In spite of all thie 
inconvenience, I want soroethine— ^n 
short, I have earned none of it — it 
does not flatter my vanity — I want ft 
" character" — and I wish* I had stidd* 
ten years ago with you in the army. 

It is the very devil to be growing 
old as a person of no peciuiarity'; 
known only as Mr So and So, who has 
an estate worth " so mu(^" Mixed 
up-^nd no resource !— with the 
crowd who lose money at Newmarkel 
— ^belong to the duos — ^keep oj^m 
girls — drivegood carriages — andmig^t 
have sold soap and whipcord, instead 
of doing any of these things, if some 
one else had not acquired the means 
which they are worthlessly dissipa^ 
pating. I protest, I think there is not 
a footman who raises himself by his 
own works to any place, or estima* 
tion, who is not — ^in the mere scale 
of creation — an incomparably nobler 
thing than any of these drones, with 
whom I am in a fair way to be indu* 
ded. 

And then, for the means of noto* 
ricty within the cirde that endures 
us — what a cirde it is, and what a 
notoriety when all is done ! The wear* 
ing always a very particular dress— 
^the uglier by far the better — riding 
in a particularly absurd vehide; or 
bemg at play a particular dupe. Fi- 
guring in the eighteenth intrigue of a 
new actress — say it is the first after 
she becomes known in London — the 
former seventeen having occurred, 
without any £guring at all, when she 
travelled, by caravan, through the 
country, and had no more dream of 
*' settlement," or "equipage," than of 
bdng translated to the skies ; or per* 
haps exposing a man's own person to 
be laughed at, at a shilling per head, 
on the stage at some watering-place, 
— (for in town the fear of pippins is 
before the eyes of rogues, ana they 
don't venture) — doing that — and as a 
matter to be proud of— which would 
not produce thirty shillings a- week, if 
it were done as a matter of profit ; and 
which, for fifteen, half the people at 
Bartlemy fair would do better, or 
would not be permitted to do at idl ! 

15 



lS96«j 



Posthumous Letters of CJiarles Edwards, Esq. 



Here's enough ahnoet to drivea man 
into being <^ sober- and honest*" And 
I wish again^ that I had staid in the 
army ; or that there coiild spring up 
another Waterloo^ which a man might 
thrust, his head into, and so gain a 
little reputation withhi ten days after 
the date of his commission; for, to 
stand as a soldier, in the presence of 
men who have fought twenty cam- 
paigns*— that's worse even than obscu- 
rity. Something I'll soon attempt, 
that's certain ; but whether to become 
a legislator — that's not a bad pursuit 
for a man to take up, who knows no- 
thing of any pursuit at all— or to com- 
mit some very unheard-of outrage, 
that people may say — ** That's Mr Ed- 
wards, who is suspected to have stolen 
Blackfriars'-bridge," when I come in- 
to a room — ^which I have not yet de- 
termined. ^ 

Absolutely, I am tired — if I could 
but escape from it— of mere worth- 
lessness and futility ; and when I meet 
men who make brilliant speeches- 
write glorious books— conduct n^o- 



2.? 

tiaticms-Hir have seen ^the Russian 
campaign— I envy, atid,- what is 
wwse, honour the eaijti£&-^to toy own 
great personal disparagement and ad- 
mittea disqualification. 

All- the teats that I ever did in my 
life — they are immeasurably great ; 
but there are so very few I dare confess 
to : If anything should strike you, by 
which a man (with an easy leap; might 
achieve honour or dignity, mention it 
when you write again ; for, or else, I 
shall be obliged to retire, as a country 
gentleman. Meantime, with thanks 
to the Lady Susan, for so iai honour- 
ing me, I believe I know sufficient of 
the language to return her indosure 
in a practicable state. If I might 
" advise,'* however— seeing sl?e is re- 
solved to patronise letters— a collection 
kept the wrong way— noting down the 
absurdities of people rather than their 
beauties>— would be far moQre easily 
maintained than that which she pro- 
poses ; and, I should think, more en- 
tertaining. 



ABJUBATION. 

There was a timer— sweet time of youthful folly !— 
Fantastic woes I courted, feign'd distress ; 

Wooing the veiled phantom. Melancholy, 
With passion bom, like Love, ** in idleness.*' 

And like a lover, like a jealous lover, 

I hid mine idol with a miser's art, 
(Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover,) 

Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart. 

And there I sought her— oft in secret sought her. 
From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play. 

To wear away, by some deep stilly water 
In greenwood lone, the livelong summer day. 

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, . 

The flying rack athwart the wavy grass ; 
And murm'ring oft, " Alack ! this life of ours— 



Such are its joys— so swiftly doth it pass. 



** 



And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden !) 
Bedropt the liquid glass, like summer rain— 

And sighs, as frotn a bosom sorrow-laden« 
Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain. 



•I 



And then, I loved to haunt lone burial-places. 

Pacing the church-yard earth with noiseless tread- 
To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces. 
Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead : 
Vol. XIX. D 



9€ A^vraiion. \Ji 

To tbink of passing bells— of deatb and dying—* 
Metbougbt 'twere sweet in early vouth to die^ 

So loFedy lamented — ^in saeb sweet sleep lying, 
Tbe wbite sbrowd all witb flowers and rosemary 

Strew'd o'er by losing bands !— But tben twoold griere no 
Too sore forsootb ! tbe scene my fancy drewr— . 

I oonld not bear tbe tbougbt^ to die and leave ye ; 
And I baye lived, dear friends 1 to weep for you* 

And I bare lived to pnnte, tbat &ding flowers 
Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize— 

Wbat ebilling rains succeed tbe summer showers^ 
Wbat bitter drops> wrung slow from elder eyes. 

And I bave lived to look on Deatb and djring^ 

To count tbe sinking pulse— tbe sbort'ning breatb-— 

To watcb tbe last faint life-streak flying — fljring— * 
To stoop— to start— to be alone witb — Deatb. 

And I bave lived to wear tbe smile of gladness, 
Wben all witbin was cbeerless, dark, and cold— 

Wben all eartb's joys seem'd mockery and madness^ 
And life more tedious tban '' a tale twice told." 

And now-— and now pale pining Mekncboly ! 

No longer veil'd for me your baggard brow 
In pensive sweetness— such as youthful folly 

Fondly conceited— I abjure ye now- 

Away — avaunt ? No longer now I call ye 
'' Divinest Melancholy ! Mild^ meek maid !"* 

No longer may your siren spells enthral me, 
A wuling captive in your baleful shade. 

Give me tbe voice of mirth — ^the sound of laughter— 
Tbe sparkling glance of pleasure's roving eye. 

Tlie past is past.— Avaunt, thou dark Hereafter ! 
'* Come, eat and drink— to-morrow we must die." 

So, in his desp'rate mood, the fool hath spoken— 
The fool whose heart hath said, " there is no Go«l." 

But for the stricken heart, the spirit broken. 
There's balm in Gilead yet. The very rod. 

If we but kiss it, as the stroke desccndethy 
Distilleth balm to allay th' inflicted smart, 

And '' Peace, that passetn understanding," blendeth 
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. 

Mine be that holy, bumble tribulation — 
No longer feigned distress — fantastic woe— 

I know my griefs — but then my consolation— 
My trusty and my immortal hopes I know. 

C. 



18Sl«3 



MaiMu 



99 



MATiLOA ; A TALK OlT THB OAT.* 



It certainly does ^ipear a little ex« 
traardiiiaiT> that Ei^umd at the pre* 
sent dftjr should be unable to boast the 
possession of a single distinguished 
novelist^ and that me higher honours 
of that department of literature should 
80 long have rested in abeyance. Mrs 
Raddi^ and Miss Austin (the very 
antipodes to each other) are gone ; and 
Madame d'Arblay, in the ** Wander- 
er^" has afforded convincing proof of 
the decay of her literary powers, at no 
time very varied or extensive. It is 
true, Theodore Hook is yet at his Pe- 
rihelion^ but much as we admire this 
^ntleman's talents^ and sympathize 
m his virtuous antipathy to steel forks, 
and servants in cotton stockings ; and 
cordially as we applaud his persevering 
exertions to reform the Criminal Code 
by imposing signal punishment on the 
depravity of dnnking porter, and eat- 
ing with a knife, we are not quite con- 
vinced that the brilliance of anything 
he has yet said or done, entitles nim to 
be quoted as an exception. Ireland 
can at least produce one name, and 
Scotland several, (we do not speak of 
the author of Waverley, for he '* is like 
a star, and dwells apart,") with which 
England has absolutely none to put in 
competition. Who'e, we should be 
■glad to know, is the English Miss 
Edgeworth? Or what production of 
the present age will they oppose to 
** The Inheritance ?" A work which, 
when considered as the production of 
a female, stands unrivalled in our na« 
tional literature, and unites the ori- 
ginality and power sometifies, though 
rarely, to be met with in our sex, with 
the more delicate and softer beauties 
peculiar to her own. We trust that 
the effect of the applause she has al- 
ready gained, has been to stimulate, 
not satiate, the ambition of this ac- 
complished lady; that she will not 
suffer her talent to slumber, nor rest 
her sickle from its task, till she has 
iidly reaped that abundant harvest of 
fame, with which her perseverance 
must undoubtedly be crowned. 

But Matilda — we confess we allow- 
ed these volumes to lie a whole month 
OD our table unread. To the lynx eye 
of a critic, the title did not seem very 



promisii^. There appeared to us some^ 
thing Lane-and-Newmanish about it^ 
a certain indescribably redolence of 
Leadenhall Street, by no means tempt^ 
ing to a nearer approach. Above all, 
the bofdc had been enveloped from its 
birth in so dense an atmosphere of 
mjf; and Colbum had so disgusting* 
Iv besmeared it with his slune and 
Slaver, that we involuntarily set it 
down for one of those catchpennv 
*^ Works of Import«ice" with whicn 
that most imaginative bookseller so 
frequently delights to surprise us, 
and the claims of which are always 
to be estimated in an inverse ratio to 
the inflation of the pan^yric bv which 
they are announced. We did, how* 
ever, read the book at last. The story 
we found to be perhaps the most 
hackneyed and commonplace in the 
whole circle of novel-writing, and one 
which had already fifty times at least 
run the gauntlet of the Circulating 
Library. The characters appeared to 
put forth but trifling claims to origi- 
nality or vigour of conception, and the 
incidents to be very few, and not very 
skilfully arranged. Out of such un- 
hopeful materials, however, has the 
author managed to construct a tale of 
no ordinary interest and beauty. He 
seems to have encountered difficulties 
merely for the sake of surmounting 
them, to have voluntarily multiplied 
the obstacles to success onlv to render 
his triumph the more signal and com- 
plete. He leads us along a beaten 
track, but is continually laying onen 
new beauties to our view. He launches 
his little skiff against wind and cur- 
rent^ and it is impossible not to admire 
the grace with which she breasts the 
waters, and stretches gallantly for her 
destined haven. 

The secret of all this is, that the 
author of these volumes is a very cle- 
ver and accomplished person. There 
is an air of el^anoe difliised over the 
whole work, and he has far more than 
compensated for the want of novelty 
in his materials, by the fineness of his 
tact, and the feliaty of his execution. 
His pictures of hign life in particular, 
though drawn with a light and sketchy 
pen<m, and not very carefully finishi 



* London. Henry Colbttni. 182d. 



^8 Matilda. 

ed in tlie minuter details, are well 
and skilfully grouped^ and marked in 
their easy and flowing outlines by the 
hand of a master. It is quite visionary 
to expect such pictures from any but 
a denizen of this closest of all corpo* 
rations^ the members of which, in the 
true spirit of our Scottish borough sys- 
tem, maintain the privilege of electing 
each other. There is no community 
in which the Alien bill is more ri- 
gidly enforced than in the common- 
wealth of fashion— none of whose laws 
and constitution the maxim, '^ Odi 
profanum vulgus et arceo," is so 
strictly adopted as the ruling principle. 
The discovery of the North-west pas- 
sage is not more beset with difficul- 
ties than that of a navigable pas- 
sage for merchantmen to the drawing- 
rooms of Grosvenor Square and Park 
Lane. 

When a stray plebeian, from his 
talents as a jester or buflbon, succeeds 
in obtaining the envied privilege of 
sitting, by sufferance, at '^ great men's 
feasts," he is aware that he holds this 
honour by too precarious a tenure, to 
feel very much at his ease. His at- 
tention is too much occupied by the 
pomp and circmnstance by which he 
is surrounded — he is too morbidly 
apprehensive of betraying his own 
vulgarity by a failure in the most tri- 
fling ceremonial ; too sedulous in his 
conformance to all the petty obser- 
vances of the entertainment, to have 
cither the leisure or composure of mind 
necessary for observations on character. 
In recording his experience of high 
Hfe, therefore, it is quite natural that 
such a person should entirely overlook 
those finer and less tangible peculiari- 
ties, by which the very highest circle 
of society is distinguished from that 
immediately beneath it, and reserve his 
descriptive eloquence for the candela- 
bras, and gilt plate, the routine of the 
dinner table, the splendour of the 
liveries, and the portly dignity of the 
butler. But this is not what we want 
-—and this is not what Lord Norman- 
by (for he is the acknowledged author 
of Matilda) has given us. The luxu- 
rious appliances of aristocratic society, 
' so novel and imposing to the imagina- 
tion of a vulgar Parvenu, are to him 
familiar as the air he breathes, and 
therefore quite as likely to pass unno- 
ticed. In Matilda, we encounter 
no descriptions of silk draperies, or 
Turkey carpets — the sideboard sup 



ports its gorgeons burden unnotioed 
—we are not drilled into the ma- 
nual and platoon exercise of silver 
forks and finger glasses— the St Pefay 
sparkles unrecoraed, and not one of 
the party is damned to everlasttng 
fame, for wearing a coarse neckcloth, 
or a Cornelian ring. Lord Normanby> 
however, is no mean artist, and has 
succeeded wonderfully in transferring 
to his canvass even the most shadowy 
and evanescent hues of the eameleon 
fashion. Of this we think no further 
evidence will be required than is af- 
forded by the foUovdng extract :— 



" It was early in the month of July, 
when that most valuable department of 
the daily press, which is headed ' Fa- 
shionable Arrangements,' contained, a- 
mong many other pieces of information, 
which, however intrinsically important, 
would not be so interesting to my rea- 
ders, the two following paragraphs :— 

** ' Lord Ormsby (late the Honourable 
Augustus Arlingford) is arrived at Mt- 
vart*s Hotel, after an absence of two 
years on the Continent.' 

'* ' Lord and Lady Eatington ^11 this 
day entertain a distinguished party at 
their splendid mansion in Grosvenor 
Square.* 

'* That intelligence of this description 
should have attracted every eye, is not to 
be wondered at, when it is recollected, 
that, as the advance of the season had 
diminished the number of these events, 
the type in which they were announced 
had proportionably increased in size and 
importance; and many an absent fair 
one, who had been prematurely hurried 
from chalked floors to green fields, had 
now no other resource than to make 
that a distiDt study which was no longer 
a present pleasure. But be this as it 
may, a little before eight, on the day 
above mentioned, the first carriage was 
heard to come clattenng up South Aud- 
ley-street, containing Lord George Dar- 
ford and Henry Penryn; two youths, 
most comprehensively described as 
• Young men about town.'-—* Very un- 
lucky, my father wanting the carriage 
afterwards,' said Lord George — * I do so 
hate to be early. The half-hour intro- 
duction to a dinner, like the preface to a 
book, should always be skipped.* 

** * One might know one was too early, 
the fellow drives so fast,* said Mr Peu- 
ryn, as they swung round the last corner, 
at the risk of annihilating a pensive uur- 
sery^maid, and all her * pretty ones, at 
one fell swoop.' 
'* * I wonder whom we shall have at 



1896.11 



Matilda. 



31 



Imii* mhOf with out-stretdied hand* and 
perpetual * how d*ye do,* went the roiuid 
of the circlet not bating * an inch of his 
prerogative* of acquaintanceship." 

The second specimen we shall lay 
before our readers^ shall be somewhat 
of a di£^ent cast It contains a deu 
scription of the Hobson family, very 
t^-top people in Manchester, who 
have biBen seized with the travelling 
mania, so endemic of late years among 
all classes. We are not quite satisfied 
that the noble author has been very 
imcoeasful in this part of his sulrject. 
The old Hobsons appear neither very 
bright conceptions, nor very new, but 
Jem Hobson compensates amply for 
all his parents' defects. He is indeed 
a gem, a jewel of great price— 

** Miss Betty Domton was some years 
older than her brother; and having 
broi^ht her charms to market at a time 
when the prospects of her fomily were 
not so extensive as they afterwards be- 
came» (old uncle Smitbson having then 
formed only the nucleiu of that immense 
wealtbt which he afterwards scraped to- 
gether; and certainly having no inten- 
tions of bequeathing it in a lump to any 
one,) her marriage with Mr John Hob- 
son was not at the time objected to. He 
was a steady, calculating foreman, in a 
large manufactory at Manchester. This 
situation he had gradually improved into 
that of a master of foremen ; and his 
small back lodging he had changed into 
the hirgest extent of staring brick front 
in Manchester. 

<* Mrs Hobson, at the time of her mar- 
riage, was a silly, showy, bustling, chat- 
tering little body; with a brisk figure, 
and brisker tongue, good-humoured, il- 
literate, and vulgar. Twenty years, and 
more than half as many children, had ra- 
ther taken from her briskness of figure— 
her person seeming to have kept pace 
with her fortunes, in increase; but no- 
thing had abated her activity of tongue, 
as Lady Matilda soon found to her cos^ 
when the servant announced Mrs Hob- 
son, the Miss Hobsons, and Master 
Hobson; the last a hobble-de-hoyish 
schoolboy. The three Miss Hobsons I 
shall not attempt to describe individually 
as to character, till the reader becomes 
by degrees better acquainted with them. 
In their dress there was a sisterly same- 
ness, consisting, as it did, of bright pea- 
green cassimere pelisses, superabundiant- 
ly bebiaided, and black beaver bonnets 
with pink linings. The only distinction 
in their appearance, was, that Miss Hol>- 
son*8 round rosy fare was<— ^me can*t say 



shaded, with viiall bright red corkscrev 
curls; whjjst Miss Anne, from havmg 
rather a hig^ bridge to her nose than 
was common in the fiunily, had taken the 
Grecian line, and had accordingly drawn 
two long straight strips of sandy hair 
across her temples, as she thought d la 
Madonna, The third, Jemima, was at 
that becoming age when young ladies* 
hair is neither long nor short. As to the 
conversation of these Manchester gmees, 
"-being in considerable awe of a person 
of whom the Morning Post said so mudi 
as it did of Lady Matilda, they confined 
that to occasional verbal corrections of 
their mother's slip-sk>p, which their 
boarding-school education fully qualified 
them to give. As to Mrs Hobson, she 
felt no such awe as that with which the 
name and Came of Lady Matilda inspired 
her daughters. Ever since her brother's 
marriage, she had persuaded herself that 
her own consequence was so much in- 
creased by the closeness of the connexion, 
that she did not feel abashed, even in 
the presence of the cause of all that ad- 
ditional consequence. So she vraddled 
straight up to Lady Matilda, in a scarlet 
velvet pelisse which made the sun hide 
his diminished head in the dpg-days ; and 
after a sisterly salutation, said,— (staring 
full at her,)—' Well, I'm sure Jem could- 
n't have done better.* She then broke 
at once into the subject now always up- 
permost in her thoughts; namely, the 
extraordinary circumstance el her being 
actually about to go abroad. 

" * Well,' said she, < I hope that we 
shall all live as one family in foreign parts. 
To think of my going trapesing out of 
Old England! hut my daughters must 
have the same advaantages as the Miss 
Tomkins's, though they did make old 
Tomkins a knight the other day. But 
an't my brother a baronet ? to say nothing 
of you. Lady Matilda. Then I)r Snook 
says, that Jemima is TStherpiknonaiy, and 
that the air of Italy will do her good ; and 
to be sure, if it was not for fear of the 
muaidttys, or bandittis, or what do they 
call them as attacks one there, I should 
like Italy well enough, and to see the 
Pope, and the Venus of Meddi— what is 
it, my dear?' appealing to one of her 
daughters. * Medici, mamma,' said Miss 
Anne. < Ay — Medici— and the Saint 
Peter's — ^but I don't think so much of 
that, because we've got a Saint Peter's 
at Manchester. And that great cascade 
(Tumy, or what do they call it ?) that 
Briggs—old Briggs of our town's son- 
showed a fine picture of it, as he did 
tliere at our exhibition, with the ^'ater 
all so white, and the rocks so black, and 



90 

daiigliten»of Iwfinflf arrfVvdbrflBratheni ; 
and the coiucioiiBneu of htving thereby 
forfeited their best daini tO'diat tdmira- 
tioD hitherto so laWshlj bestowed upon 
them from that quarter : the young ladies* 
idea of being < quite the thing,' consisting 
in nothing so much as pre-eminent un- 
punctuality. 

** The stranger bowed slightly to the 
dudiess as she passed to his end of the 
reoniy which she answered with an in- 
quiring curtsey^— her Ghrace's ejre-sight, 
which was none of the best, being now 
rendered more treacherous by the dark- 
ness of the room. * Who is it ?' said 
she to Lord George, in a low whisper ; 
to which he replied, < Indeed I don't 
knowt'— in a tone of voice aU but im- 
pertinently audible. At this moment 
their host and hostess appeared from an 
inner room — Lady Eatington employed 
with a halAdrawn-on glove— his lordship 
applying a half-opened pocket-handker- 
chief to his nose ; both wfaidi actions 
were meant to signify rather reproach- 
folly, than apologetically, * You have 
come sooner than we expected— but here 
vreare.' 

** As we have introduced our readers 
to their house, we shall be expected to 
make them acquauited with the master 
and mistress ; but Lord and lAdy Eat- 
ington were Uiose every-day sort of peo- 
ple of whose characters it is almost im- 
possible to speak in affirmatives. Per- 
haps the two most positive characteris- 
tics of his lordship were, that he was a 
receiver of rents in the country, and a 
giver of dinners in town. To speak ne- 
gatively—he was— no politician — no 
farmer— no bel esprit— no connoisseur ; 
but the most distinguished of all these 
classes met at his house, to pronounce 
upon the merits of one of the best cooks 
in Europe : in consideration of which, 
every one, iu accepting his invitations, 
wrote to him — ' Dear Eat|ngton, 

* Yours truly.* 
And every one enfil^ the crowd at Al- 
mack's, to squeeze Lady Eatington's 
hand when she first came to town. 

** Her ladyship was naturally a very silly» 
and by education (so called), a very illi- 
terate woman : but long habits of the 



Matilda. C^l 

stranger! As the arriTil of flredi eoai- 
pany made the oonvemdoa lest com* 
strained, this was explained, thongli boC 
to the satis&ction of Lord George and 
Mr Penryn, by overhearing Lady Eatfaig. 
ton telling the duchess^ whose ean wera 
almost as defective as her eyes^ a long 
story, of which they caught—' If est re- 
collect'—* Augustus Arlingford'*-^ Umg 
abroad*—' supposed early disappoint- 
ment'—' recent death of his brother*-^ 
' now Lord Ormsby*- ' very rich,' &&-• 
which immediately produced from her 
Grace, in rather a high tone, meant to 
catch bis lordship's ear at some distanci^ 
— * Excuse my blindness, my lord«— La- 
titia and Cecilia- Lord Ormsby— yoa 
must recollect Mr Arlingford, Chooi^ 
you were then very young— quite duU 
dren.* 

<* The reflections of Lord George andMr 
Penryn, upon their half-wilful mistake^ 
were not very consolatory, as the former 
fame of Augustus Arlingford occurred to 
them in all its pre-eminence. Lord 
George now recollected that, in his first 
conference with his tailor, he had been 
strongly recommended the Arlingford 
collar, and that a part of his dress, about 
which he was very particular, had been 
called ' Arlingford's.' Mr Penryn, too» 
had a disagreeable reminiscence, that 
whilst still at college, he lost a rouleaUp 
when Mr Arlingford's colt won the Der- 
by ; and both distinctly remembered, that 
when they first came out, if any very 
well-looking young man appeared, all the 
orades declared that he had ' a look of 
Arlingford;' and this was the man whom 
they had voted an awkward aGtor« a 
squab singer, or a methodist paraon. 

'* From this time the cannonade at the 
street-door became almost incessant, and 
every possible variety of arrival was con- 
stantly swelling the circle, which, with 
truly English instinct, had formed itself 
round the place, where (strange to say) 
there was twi a fire ; and many were the 
different ways of presenting themselves 
which might be remarked :^First, The 
tender scion, just budding in the first 
rays of fashion, who, after advandng des- 
perately, and retiring awkwardly from the 
circle, seemed anxiously to solicit a pro- 



world enabled her to conceal this ; and if tecting nod from those around him, eon- 



she was seldom as well informed as her 
guests, she was always as well dressed as 
her dinners— which answered all the pur- 
pose. 

** But how surprised were our young 
beaux, and our old duchess, to see, that 
whilst tliey themselves were casually re- 
cognised, the whole of the attention of 
both host and hostess was directed to the 



firmative of the acquaintance he hoped 
he bad made. Tlien came the well* 
established man of the world, who seem- 
ed carelessly to postpone the duties of 
recognition, till dinner and lights aflbrd- 
ed him a -more convenient opportunity of 
doing sa To him succeeded the ' ci- 
devant jeune homme,' whose ' way of 
life is btlVa into the sear-— the yellow 



1896.11 



Matma. 



U 



Ufflt who^ with out-stretcfacd hand, and 
perpetual ' how d*ye do,* went the round 
of t2ie circle, not bating * an inch of his 
prerogative* of aequaintanceslup.*' 

The second specimen we shall lay 
before our readers, shall be somewhat 
of a different cast It contains a deu 
scription of the Hobson family, very 
^-top people in Manchester, who 
have been seized with the travelling 
mania, so endemic of late years among 
all cksses. We are not quite satisfied 
that the noble author has been very 
saeceasfttl in this part of his subject. 
The old Hobsons appear neither very 
bright conceptions, nor very new, but 
Jem Hobson compensates amply for 
all his parents' defects. He is indeed 
a gem, a jewel of great price— 

« Miss Betty Domton was some years 
older than her brother; and having 
broi^t her charms to market at a time 
when the prospects of her fiimily were 
not so extensive as they afterwards be- 
came, (old uncle Smitbson having then 
formed only the nttdeus of that immense 
wealth, which he afterwards scraped to- 
gether; and certainly having no inten- 
tions of bequeathing it in a lump to any 
one,) her marriage with Mr John Hoh- 
aon was not at the time objected to. He 
was a steady, calculating foreman, in a 
large manufactory at Manchester. This 
situation he had gradually improved into 
that of a master of foremen ; and his 
small back lodging he had changed into 
the largest extent of staring brick front 
in Manchester. 

<* Mrs Hobson, at the time of her mar- 
riage, was a silly, showy, bustling, chat- 
tering little body; with a brisk %ure, 
and brisker tongue, good-humoured, il- 
literate, and vulgar. Twenty years, and 
more than half as many children, had ra- 
ther taken from her briskness of figure-* 
her person seeming to have kept pace 
with her fortunes, in increase; but no- 
thing had abated her activity of tongue, 
at Lady Matilda soon found to her cos^ 
when the servant announced Mrs Hob- 
son, the Miss Hobsons, and Master 
Hobson; the last a hobble-de-hoyish 
schoolboy. The three Miss Hobsons I 
shall not attempt to describe individually 
as to character, till the reader becomes 
by degrees better acquainted with them. 
In their dress there was a sisterly same- 
ness, consisting, as it did, of bright pea- 
green cassimere pelisses, superabundant- 
ly bebraided, and black beaver bonnets 
with pink linings. The only distinction 
in their appearance, was, tliat Miss Hol>- 
son*8 round rosy face was—- one can*t say 



shaded, with small bright red corkicrw 
curls ; whijst Miss Anne, from having 
rather a higher bridge to her nose than 
was common in the finally, had taken the 
Grecian line, and had accordingly drawn 
two long straight strips of sandy hair 
across her temples, aa she thought ^ la 
Madonna. The third, Jemima, was at 
that becoming age when young ladies* 
hair is neither long nor short. As to the 
conversation of these Manchester graees, 
-—being in considerable awe of a person 
of wbom tlie Morning Post said so mudi 
as it did of Lady Matilda, they confined 
that to occasional verbal corrections of 
their mother's slip-slop, which thdr 
boarding-school education frilly qualified 
them to give. As to Mrs Hobson, she 
felt no such awe as that with which the 
name and fome of Lady Matilda inspired 
her daughters. Ever since her brother's 
marriage, she had persuaded herself that 
her own consequence was so mueh i». 
creased by the closeness of the connexion, 
that she did not feel abashed, even in 
the presence of the cause of all that ad- 
ditional consequence. So she waddled 
straight up to Lady Matilda, in a scarlet 
velvet pelisse which made the sun hide 
his diminished head in the dog-days ; and 
after a sisterly salutation, said,— (staring 
full at her,) — ' Well, I'm sure Jem could- 
n't have done better.* She then broke 
at once into the subject now always np- 
permost in her thoughts; namely, the 
extraordinary circumstance of her being 
actually about to go abroad. 

*' * Well,' said she, < I hope that we 
shall all live as one family in foreign parts. 
To think of my going trapesing out of 
Old England! but my daughters must 
have the same admantages as the Miss 
Tomkins's, though they did make old 
Tomkins a knight the other day. But 
an't my brother a baronet ? to say nothing 
of you. Lady Matilda. Then Dr Snook 
says, that Jemima is TatherpUmonary, and 
that the air of Italy will do her good ; and 
to be sure, if it was not for fear of the 
muskUtyst or bandittis, or what do they 
call them as attacks one there, I should 
like Italy well enough, and to see the 
Pope, and the Venus of Meddi— what is 
it, my dear ?* appealing to one of her 
daughters. < Medici, mamma,' said Miss 
Anne. ' Ay — Medici— and the Saint 
Peter's — but I don't think so much of 
that, because we've got a Saint Peter's 
at Manchester. And that great cascade 
(Tumy, or what do they call it ?) that 
Briggs— old Briggs of our town's son- 
showed a fine picture of it, as he did 
tliere at our exliibition, with the water 
all so white, and the rocks so black, and 



SB 



MatildeL 



CJi 



the trees so green; very pretty it wee, 
and little Briggs himself sitting on a three- 
legged stool, with it ell splashing about 
him, poor fellow ;— and then that Capi- 
tal Colossus as the old Romans made.* 
— < Coliseum, mamma,* said Miss Hob* 
son ; * and the Capitol,' said Miss Anne, 
* is a building by itself.'—' Very well, my 
dearS) a building by itself, is it ? I thought 
it was in Rome— but Jem ought to know, 
for I suppose that*s what they teach him 
at school.* This changed the current of 
her ideas, and called Lady Matilda's at- 
tention to a nuisance which the presence 
of more active annoyances had hitherto 
prevented her from observing. 

" Of all the demands that the ties of 
connexion can make upon one's patience, 
there is nothing like the precocious intro- 
duction, into general society, of a genuine 
school-boy ; where, either by his uneasy 
awkwardness, he makes all who see him 
equally uncomfortable, or, by his pert 
self-sufficiency, causes a more active dis- 
turbance. — Sir James's saying, which he 
so aptly applied, of * Love me, love my 
dog,* is nothing to the trial of, Love me, 
love my school-boy. It is true, though, 
that school-boys are, after all, (to use a 
metaphor peculiarly suited to the Hob- 
son family,) the raw material of which 
the finished articles, most sought for in 
a drawing-room, must be manufactured. 
There are, also, two varieties in the spe- 
cies; your private school-boy is much 
worse than your public; by private 
schools, being meant all, however large 
and however open, except two or three, 
where the scholars are more select and 
gentleman-like; and which schools are 
therefore called public. And never was 
there seen a more regular specimen of 
the worst kind of school-boy, than that 
which met Matilda's eyes in the person 
of Jem Hobson, as he sat on the very 
edge of the sofo; his pale, shrunk, nan- 
keen trowsers, having worked their way 
up his spindle leg, which was enveloped 
in a wrinkled cotton stocking ; the collar 
of his new coat, and his black stock, 
alone, showing any embryo symptoms of 
incipient dandyism ; his sandy hair plas- 
tered sideways with a wet brush, off his 
snubby, chubby face ; and his hands oc- 
cupied in studiously brushing, the wrong 
way, the nap of his shapeless hat. 

** * Put your hat down, my dear Jem,' 
said Mrs Hobson. * He is Sir James*s 
godson ; we reckon him very like him,' 
appealing to Matilda, who, though she 
said nothing, could not deny the imputa- 
tion. 

I am sorry his uncle's out. I 



III 



12 



brought hhn here, u he ii not goias 
abroad with us, on purpose to lee him^ 
as it is right boys should know who tbef 
are to look to. Jem, I'm sure, will do 
something for his godson, little Jem, w 
we call him : perhaps make him a {to- 
liament man ; it is as good a trade w 
any; at least, I'm sure, so uncle Smith* 
son found it. They say, he must make 
six : so he may as well have one of his 
own kin as another. Who knows but, in 
time, Jem may live to be a^— what waa 
that great gentleman, who so civilly wrote 
to thank our people for. killing the Ra- 
dicals?'— * A Secretary of State, mam« 
ma,* said Miss Hobson. 

<< < Ah ! Why should not Jem live to 
be a Secretary of State, Lady Matilda 1 1 
can assure you,* continued the fond mo- 
ther, * that all pains have been taken with 
his speechifying ;— Jem, suppose you let 
your aunt hear that speedi that I say 
makes me think I hear you in the House 
of Commons.' Matilda submitted to this, 
as a minor evil to hearing the mother talk 
about him ; and Jem, who, with all his 
shyness, preferred to his present state of 
awkward inaction, that exposure to whieh 
habit had hardened him, immediately pre- 
pared to comply ; and, throwing his hand 
stiffly up, like a way-post, began, * My 
name is Norval,*— in that gruffish squeaky 
and with that measured twang, whieh 
generally accompany such exhibitions. 
He was proceeding, with wonderful suc- 
cess : and had just arrived at the point 

where— 
* A band of fierce barberlans fmn the ldlb» 
Rushod, like a torrent, down upon die vale. 
Sweeping our floek« and herds/—' 

when the door opened, and in walked our 
two friends of the preceding evening. 
Lord George Darford and Mr Penryn, 
who usually hunted time in couples, and 
meant to kill Hialf an hour with Lady 
Matilda. Great, indeed, was their asto- 
nishment at the party they found assem- 
bled, and the exhibition they interrupted. 

Our young actor might have added— 
* Our shepherds fled for safety and for succour/ 

for sudden was the flight this produced 
in the family ;— Mrs Hobson displaying 
to the still wondering eyes of the intru- 
ders, as she moved towards the door, the 
broad back of her splendid pelisse, whose 
unequally.worn texture showed at once, 
that her velvet was English, and her 
habits sedentary. The young ladies foU 
lowed in a cluster, stooping, shuffling, 
poking, and using every other means if 
which English young ladies of a certaia 
class get out of the room. Rosdus, alone, 
' still hovered about the enemy'— till, 
with some difficulty, he had extricated 



1881.;] M4UUda. 

hkuJMpiltM liat Urom under Ihe €eet nf 
Lord George, whd wu, bj tiiie time, 
q^MwUng ott the aofm; and having^ aclrie. 
tbii, with afo^rmal bow, which he had 



M 



miUesitAngfeterre , — Sacre /' — ahd> t^ 
thev astottiBhiiieBt^ ^ere appeared the 
figure of the much-despised coorier, kaa 



learnt at the same time as his speech, he • cmng intothe room the identical garqofu 
left the room. Leon's altered ap ye M|n ce» in < Rule a 

" * What, in the name of wonder,* said Wife and have « WilV did no* creat* 



Zaerd George, * is that young Esquimaux, 
whom we found exhibiting; and who are 
his attendant squaws ?* 

<< • That hMlj was the sister .of Sir 
James; the others were her children,' 
Lady Matilda replied, in a tone calcula- 
ted to stop any further attempts at ridi- 
cule." 

The Hobsons get into France^ and 



creat* 

greater surprise, fwr, indeed, a more com* 
plete flttmge in manner and deportment $ 
nor was it easy to recognise the little^ 
helpless, much- enduring being, in the 
shabby surtout and oil-skin hat, in the 
arbitrary, bullying, swaggering hero, gliU 
tering in gold lace and scarlet, with shi- 
ning yellow leather breeches, and clatter- 
ing about in a commanding pair of boots* 



tlie following is a further specimen of It was like the Emperor Napoleon, ri- 



the author's powers of humour — 

" The feeling which one experiences in 
the firet change' from an English to a 
Brench inn, must be like that of a horse, 
vfao is Boddenly taken out of a warm, 
close stable, and turned into a loose box. 
J« the first, be is often cramped for room ; 
kept much too hot; plagued with super- 
fluous care and attention ; never left 
-enough to himself; and stuffed beyond 
what he can eat. In the other, he has 
* fine, roomy, airy place, to walk about 
fn> and nobody ever seems to trouble his 
Iretfd about him, or to come near him, ex- 
eept at random, to feed him, when they 
have nothing else to do. 

** At any rate, if the comparison be not 
^uite just, it is one which struck Tom 
Hobson, as he and his family were turned 
into a large, staring, out-of-the-way kind 
Of room, and left to their fate.- Minutes, 
that seemed hours, passed, and there was 
no appearance of any one taking the least 
notice of them. Mrs Hobson, on whom 
the discipline of the packet had entailed 
a most ravenous appetite, now became 
most clamorous. AH in vain ;— 4t last 
iriie heard a footstep on the -stairs, and 
Mllied forth. There she caught a stray 
waiter, singing— * Partant pour la Sjfrie.* 
He was proceeding on his way, without 
attending to her, when hunger made her 
bold ; and though she had lost her * Jlfa- 
nud de Voyager,* she screamed at him, as 
she thought, in the words of that useful 
publication, — ' Jie guis femme il faut me 
manger.* The garqon stared a moment, 
in astonishment ; when the truism con- 
tained in the first part of the sentence, 
not seeming to reconcile him to the ob- 
ligation implied in the remainder,— 4ie 



sing from a sous-lieutenant of artillery, 
upon the extinction of the ancien rSgimef 
into absolute power. 

" Thus, after the short-lived anarchy 6i 
the steam-boat, Pierre had completely su- 
perseded all the former legitimate autho- 
rities of the Hobson family. From that 
time forward, nothing could be done, 
without him ; all Mrs Hobson's almoit 
unintelligible wants were obliged to th^ 
ceive his sanction, before they could be 
satisfied ;— old Hobson*s eatt-de'Vie,Bnd 
water could not be obtained without his 
approbation ;— Tom was obliged to re- 
sign, into his more efficient command, all 
future control over the postilions ; 
•—even the young ladies could not hqr 
their heads on a downy pillow, unless it 
was procured by him; and when Miss 
Hobson desired that she might have 
deux gros matelots on her bed, he it was 
that saved her from the danger to which 
an unconscious substitution of one vowel 
for another might have otherwise sub- 
jected her. The dinner was not only 
obtained at once by the exertion of his 
authority, but upon the whole gave .as- 
tonishing satisfaction. True it is, that 
old Hobson began by d g the soup, 
as mere salt-water, with sea-weed float- 
ing in it; by which he succeeded, as 
usual, in making yrh&t, from recent re- 
collections, was to all the party precisely 
the most unwelcome of similies. Some 
Maintenoncotelettes, too, excited" much 
admiration ; Mrs Hobson wondering 
why they were wrapped up in paper ; . 
and Tom, supposing that they were 
meant for tliem to carry in their pockets, 
instead of sandwiches. 

<* Dinner being finished, and the rain 
passed on—* Partant jxmr la Syrie,* Their -continuing, the party were again reduced 



ease thus seemed quite desperate ; when 
first an authoritative voice was heard upon 
the stairs, abusing everybody to the right 
and left ; -of which the most audible words 
were,—* Sacre I defuire atiendre ; Sacre / 
Vol. XIX. 



to their internal resources for amuse- 
ment ; and as the detail of these is net 
likely to afford much gratification to my 
readers^ I shall leave them for the pre-' 
sent, to pursue their jonmey, tunung my 

.K 



94 

attention to 
ages." 

We have already expressed our dis- 
satisfaction with the want of originality 
in the plot. We think, too^ it might 
have heen managed with greater effect. 
Love can hrcak, and nas hroken^ 
far stronger honds than those with 
which the author has endrded his 
heroine ; and we think the story would 
have carried with it a deeper interest 
and a higher morale had Matilda heen 
made to violate the duties of a mother 
with those of a wife, and feed his altar 



Maiilda. QJia, 

more important perso- very oonsidenible doubts are entertaiiied 

as to the propriety of these marriagea ; 
but, in my humble opinion, it is eontiary 
to the benevolent principles of our reli- 
gion to place any one in a state of irre- 
claimable sin. Many I know of those 
who have been thus redeemed, have been 
irreproachable as wives and mothers; 
and, in your particular case, I trust that 
the salutary interval of solitaiy repentance 
may have so chastened your mind, as 
that you will be properly prepared so- 
lemnly to undertake these new duties.' 
Matilda bowed her head in humble ae- 

not only with the sacrifice of a hus- ^"lf'"f ^- . , ,. ^ 

band, but of a child. She should have ^ \^« mommf; of the day on which 

died too, we think, not from any of ^^^^^^ ^^f «^P^^^«**, ^« «<^"n« «Jjd 

the common accidents of nature, not ^'^^^'r^, Zl T ""^ l^'T ^T'l^ 

' nary efforts of nature, which, m that de- 

licious climate, defying the calculations 
of the calendar, charm one with a feel- 
ing of summer security even in the midst 
of winter. Matilda had persuaded her 
friend to accompany her to the fsurther 
extremity of the terrace which feces the 
sea ; and on the smooth and sunny ho • 
rizon her eye had long been fixed, en- 
deavouring to catch the first glimpse of 
the expected vessel. But there was not, 
on all this wide expanse of waters, even 
one white wave to be seen, which for a 
moment she could mistake for a shiniiig 
sail. Still it was early, and the kind ^' 
forts of Mrs Sydney to calm her impa- 
tience were for some time not entirely 
without success. Yet hour passed after 
hour, and still he came not. At length 
the sun, which had played on the rippled 
surface before them, had now retired in 
its daily course to glitter on the still 
snowy summit of the Alps behind them ; 
and the short hectic cough of Mrs Syd- 
ney, which this chilly change aggravated, 
reminded Matilda of the danger of indul- 
ging in the selfish pleasure of longer de- 
taining her there. She insisted, therefore, 
on her immediately leaving her, and re- 
turning home. 

" When deprived of her companion, 
Matilda's impatience, of course, increased. 
< With so fair a wind,* she thought, * be 
might have been here before now.' As 
she uttered these words, she started at a 
sudden gust which, rustling in the fallen 
leaves, carried them before her in a sort 
of whirlwind, to a considerable distaaoe. 
In her present state of nervous excite- 
ment, even so trifling an incident for a 
moment checked that bounding sense of 
happiness which she had previously in 
vain endeavoured to repress, though her 
reproving conscience told her, that the 
pleasure she anticipated was a forbidden 
and guilty one. But this transitory un- 
easiness again subsided with the n\oment« 



from the neglect or contumely of the 
world, not from any change in the 
affections of one for whom she had 
given up all, but in the full possession 
of everything that she had looked for- 
ward to as necessary to her happiness, 
from that deep and settled conscious- 
ness of irrecoverable guilt and shame 
working like madness in her brain, and 
turning the cup of happiness into bit- 
terness and poison. There is, however, 
much deep feeling and power displayed 
in the working up of tne closing scene 
of the catastrophe with which the story 
concludes. In justice to the author, we 
extract a portion of the last pages — 

" Ormsby*s absence had been unex- 
pectedly protracted, by the dil!iculty he 
bad found in accumulating from so many 
different quarters, and in a foreign land, 
the conclusive proofs of Santelino's birth, 
and in tracing his identity through the 
different situations of his early life. But 
at length Matilda received from him the 
glad tidings that his disinterested labours 
had been brought to a successful termi- 
nation, and that the evidence he had ob- 
tained was such as could not be resisted 
in any court of justice. He added, that, 
as the speediest mode of returning to 
her, he should embark in a felucca at Ge- 
noa, and again should have the inexpres- 
sible delight of beholding her on the day 
immediately succeeding that in which she 
received the letter. In conclusion, he 
congratulated himself on the intelligence 
he had received from England, that Sir 
James Dornton*s divorce bill had already 
passed one branch of the Legislature, 
and that, therefore, almost immediately 
upon his return he should have it in his 
power to make her irrevocably his. 

" * I am aware,* said her friend, Mrs 
Sydney, upon this intelligence being com- 
municated to her, < I am aware that, in 
the minds of many excellent persons, 



W96.'2 Maiilda. 

taey agitation of the pacing breeze which 
caiised it ; and yet a little while she in- 
dulged the unbroken hope of the expect" 
ed meeting. 

' ** Left alone to revel uninterruptedly 
in the enjoyment of her excited feelings, 
fehe now eagerly sought a remote pro- 
montory, from which she thought she 
might command a more distant prospect 
of the course he must come. But when 
at length she did reach that point, wide 
end wild enough was the scene that met 
her view, yet far different from that which 
she had fondly anticipated. 

" Those alone who have actually ex- 
perienced the awful manner in which, 
without the least warning of impending 
danger, tremendous squalls suddenly burst 
upon the Mediterranean, can form any 
adequate idea of the almost miraculous 
change which now took place in the ap- 
pearance of all things around, and of the 
accumulating horrors which abruptly pre 



within reach of the shore, rising upon 
the darkness before her, a light sail met 
hier eye. One moment she caught it, as 
waving wildly in the wind, it flapped hea- 
vily over the heads of those from whose 
control it had broken. It was but a 
moment, and the. last appalling scream of 
human misery struck upon her ear, as it 
swept sadly by— mingling wich the howl- 
ing of the tempest. 

" Those whose career had been thud 
abruptly closed, were not more uncon- 
scious of all that followed the harrowing 
sound of their expiring agonies, than was 
the poor sufferer who had been fated to 
witness them ; for almost lifeless, drench- 
ed with the rain, and her arms out- 
stretched towards the sea, extended upon 
the beach, the unfortunate lady was found 
by her anxious friend, — who had till now 
in vain sought her from the beginning 
of the storm, which she knew was so 
calculated to excite her well-grounded 

sented themselves to the anxious eye of fears for the safety of one on whom her 

our heroine. Heavy rolling clouds were whole happiness depended. 

collecting on all sides — their darkness 

fttid gloom aggravated by the struggling 

rays of the setting sun, which were ma- 
king a last effort to pierce through their 

increasing density. 

<* As she reached the rock she had so 

anxiously sought, the extensive waste of 

Waters were still discernible, yet not, as 

an hour since, just rippling their other. 

wise unbroken surface, but * curling their 

monstrous heads* to meet the lowering 

vapours from above. For a moment she 

stood rooted to the spot, unmoved even 

by the violence of the gale, which blew 

with peculiar force around the point. 

A cold chill ran through her veins. Even 

as suddenly as the outward appearance 

of all around had been sadly changed, 

the fond hopes she had so lately cherish 



C( 



It was with the greatest difficulty 
th^t when assistance had been procu- 
red, Matilda could be prevailed upon to 
quit the spot on which she had been 
found. Her senses had suffered from 
the shock she had experienced ; and they 
were only partially restored, to endure 
the pangs of a premature labour. Long 
and doubtful was the struggle; and ft 
was late in the following day, when- the 
almost unconscious mother strained to 
her broken heart a female child, whose 
untimely birth and delicate appearance 
did not promise a longer continuance of 
life, than could be hoped for its evident- 
ly dying mother." 

We now bid farewell to Matilda 
and its author. We say its author, for 
amid the more stimulating pursuits in 



ed yielded to an overwhelming sense of which Lord Normanby has already 

"" taken no undistinguished part, it is 

perhaps scarcely to be expected that 
we shall soon meet him in that charac- 
ter again. Should his ambition, how- 
ever, still point to distinction in the 
walks of literature, we can assure him 
that his present work is one rather of 
promise than performance, and that it 
will require a very strong and effective 
concentration of nis powers, to place 
him even on a footing of equalitv 
with many of his competitors. At all 
events, the present article will show 
that we are disposed to regard his 
efforts with no unfavourable eye, and 
give the lie to those who accuse us of 
mixing politics with literature, and of 
refusing, under any circumstances, to 
do justice to the ptoductions of a Whig* 



impending evil. The low hollow mur- 
mur of distant thunder lingered like the 
knoll of death upon her ear. She pressed 
her hands upon her breast, and rushed 
wildly down upon the beach. Utterly un- 
conscious was she how long, with feelings 
of mental agony far superior to any sense 
of personal suffering, she wandered in 
the neighbourhood of that dreary point. 
** It was only in the aggravation of her 
fears for him in whom self was utterly 
absorbed, that she felt the pelting rain 
which drenched her light garments; it 
was only as it impeded her clearer view 
of the boundless ocean, that she regarded 
the heavy spray which dashed unceasing- 
ly against her delicate frame. But it was 
no fleeting form assumed by the ever- 
varying jspray,— it was no fancied crea- 
tion of her troubled spirit, when, almost 



Tki Ckurtk ofEagland. 



TflZ CRUftCH or EXGLAXD* 



CiECCM fTAXCES oweT wbich we had 
no eontmHy bat in wfaicb^ were we to 
enter into a minaie detail of them, the 
public conld take no manner of inte- 
rcity bare alone prevented as from re« 
taming, as we had designed to return, 
in our lau Number, to a oontddera- 
tion of the present sute and probable 
latore prospects of the Church of 
EnglaDfl. We commence our present 
paper with this declaration, because 
we are not anuous to conceal thitt a 
snuill part only of the ta&k n hich we 
have assi^ed to ourselTes has as vet 
been accomplished. No doabt the 
subjecu already touched upon are of 
very vi:al importance ; they arc, more-« 
over, in every cr.e's mouth, and there- 
fore we treated of them first. But 
there are other matters behind, of no 
leas lericus moment, which, though 
they may not perhaps be spoken of 
quite so frequently, are neither left 
unnoticed, nor suffered to pass with- 
out censure. To these, in the proper 
order, we mean to draw the attention 
of our readers ; and as we are happy 
to find that the tone in which our for- 
mer discussions were delivered has not 
been locked upon, as we were half 
afraid it misht be looked upon, as im- 
pertinent, we can give no better p'.e^lge 
tor our future moderation, than bv 
assuring them, that they will not find 
that tone altered to the last. 

Before entering upon what may be 
regarded ss a new topic, it may appear 
but just and rea<;onable to rotice such 
cmir-ior^ in our review of the Book of 
Common Prayer, as have either oc- 
curred to ourselves ^ince that review 
went forih, or have been pointed out 
to us by others. TheEe, though no: 
numerous, chance to beof con&ider^ble 
consequence. An anoTivmous corre- 
spondent has, for example, suggested, 
tiut in case of a revision of the limrg)*, 
it might be proper to increase the 
number of sentences prefixed to the 
exhonation, by certain texts, such as 
Gen. xxviii. 17, or Habak. ii. 2*j, in- 
culcative of reverence for the f-'/ia of 
as-embly. The same writer recom- 
mends a removal of the word Trinify 
from the Litany, which, contir.ueshe, 
*' though a Jlrr't htfifrirr in the doc- 
trine, I canno: hct think an ur. scrip- 
tunl n.ode of sdt:r=ss to the Deity — 
the invariable designation of the Kinz 
by the simple title of ' our sovereign 



lord' — the insertioD bdore the pmri 
thanksgiving of those words ia the. 
communion service, ' Let as g;m 
thanks unto oar Lord God,' 'It k. 
meet and right to do lo,' — sad a dtf- 
ferent mode (the present^ where thoe 
are many communicsntai, being nthcr 
tedious than edifying) ci admioister- 
\nz the elements of the Lord's Sa|^cr. 
These su^estions," he adds, '^maj 
be deemedof lecoudsry importanee. 
Some of them, no doubt, may be 
thus thought of ; but we are far from 
considering them all as equally anini* 
pcrtanL Le: us see. 

With respect to the texts of scrip- 
ture referred to, unquestionably thm 
could be no impropriety, if there were 
little positive benefit, in placii^ than 
where our unknown friend dcsxcs 
to see them placed. A great deal is 
gained towards securing the attentioiL 
c^ a congregation to the schema dntj 
in which they are about to be en- 
ployed, if you succeed in impnauag 
them with feelings of awe and reve- 
rence towards the place of aasemblj i 
and were we sare that the repeiitioa 
of any sentences from the BifaJe woold 
produce this effect, we should strongly 
urce the nieasure. But we qacatkHi 
whether any thing which is done ofhcn 
and regularly, comes not, in the end, 
to be regarded with indifference, and 
hence we are apt to consider this sag- 
gestion as one of secondare import- 
ance only. So is it also in the case of 
the sentences advised to be taken lor 
the ccmmunion service. These, ia- 
serted as our correspondent points 
out, could do no harm ; we scareelj 
think they would do much good. Bat 
of his remaining suggestions we shall 
take more notice, because we oon&der 
them more deserving of It. 

We know not what to say as to the 
wisdom of omittin;; the word Trinity 
frcm the daily service of the Churcii. 
It is true that the term occurs not ia 
scripture ; that it never came into use 
till icn;^ after the canon of scriptore 
was completed ; and that, like all ho- 
rn an language, when applied to the 
Divine Being, it necessarily fails of 
creating anv just or intelligible idea 
in the mind 0( him who uses it. The 
very same thing may be said of the 
clause which follows it : — " Three 
persons and one God," the word ner- 
i'jn signifying something iadinoaal. 



18»;] TheCkurth 

tangible^ ancl confineftUe ; Mid it be- 
ing Btterly impossible to the human 
mmd to direst itself of that idea, as oB- 
tea aa the word ^' person'^ happens to 
he uttered. But if we he induced, for 
these and similar reasons, to strike out 
partieular expressions here and there, 
from our liturgy, it is absolutely 
impossible to determine nthere it be- 
hoves us to stop. The fact is, that no 
language can possibly express a dis- 
tlnct notion of the Supreme Being, 
because no distinct notion of that 
Being can be formed by man ; nor, we 
are disposed to imagine, by any other 
creature. Even of his attributes — 
though we speak of them continually 
—we know nothing ; for what are 
eternity and omnipresence to us, ex- 
cept sounds, without any definite 
sense ? Though, therefore, it be true, 
that the term Trinity is an unfortunate 
one, and though it certainly occurs 
not throughout the pages of scripture, 
we should be sorry to see it expunged 
fh)m the Litany of the English Church, 
because the measure could hardly faA 
to produce far greater evils tiian those 
which it might be intended to remedy. 
If the doctrine be taught in scripture, 
88 we conscientiously believe* it is, the 
English Church must and ought to 
have some- term or another by which 
to express its belief in that doctrine ; 
and the doctrine and the term are, 
f¥om long usage, so completely asso- 
ciated together, that where the one is 
dropped, the other is understx>od to be 
rejected. Now, though we have al- 
ready said, and again say, that the 
Church would act wisely in blotting 
out the Athanasian creed fi«om her 
formularies, we would never advise 
any measure, calculated to excite the 
most remote suspicion, that the Eng- 
lish Church had erred from the true 
£iith, and become tinctured widi So- 
cinianism. Besides all which, you 
could not omit the phrase under con- 
sideration from one part of the Prayer 
Book, without omitting it from all. 
Your festival of Trinity Sunday must 
accordingly be set aside ; and we con- 
fess that we look up to that festival with 
too partial an eye, to give our consent, 
at least, to its overthrow. It has al- 
ways struck us, as a proof of the great 
wiOTom of the compilers of the liturgy, 
that they have there taught the import- 
ant doctrine of a Trinity in unity in a 
way so quiet, if we may be allowed 
the expression, and so inoffensive. In 



die fMtiTali <if Chdilnia% QmdfBn^ 
day, and Easter Sunday^ the diviiiil|r 
6( the Son had been plainly ati^ed^ 
the divinity and persoiiality d ihim 
Holy Ghost hod been deckueA wills 
equal distinctness m that of Wliiitsini>*^' 
day, whilst to the worsh^ oi the Fa<^ 
ther, every day of die year issuposod; 
to be dedicated. Not to have ^votodt 

one day to the worship of ths Trinity^ 
would have been- to have the people: 
in doubt whether there were net thiee: 
separate Gods deserving of their woe«> 
ship. Our correspondent wrll iiew,> 
we trust, perceive why we canBot' 
agree in the propriety of his snggeswi 
tion. We love not the term motet 
than he does ; but it is, and has been^ 
so intimately connected with the most: 
important doctrine of Cbtistianity, 
and is so thoroughly interwoven into 
adl the services of the English Churchy 
that you could not drop it widiout 
endangering the one, and absokitdy- 
unhinging the other. 

Of his remaining observations, rda*» 
tive to the titles bestowed upon the king, 
and the admiration of the elements in 
the Lord's Supper, we think very difl^-^ 
ently. Not only do we disapprove of 
the application of such language as i» 
applied in the English Liturgy to the 
reigningmonarch, but we conceive thatr 
the whole thing would be rendered- 
fw more solemn, and far more touch- 
ing, were the name of the prince en- 
tirely struck out» To speak, in an 
address to the Deity, of '^ our roost 
religious and gracious King,'' whether 
that king chanoe to be a really reli- 
gious person, or the reverse, is to be 
guilty of something which we do not 
choose to designate ; whilst the intro- 
duction of a modem Christian name, 
such as George or Frederick, into the 
middle of a pathetic prayer, has always- 
appeared to us to savour prodigiously 
of the bathos. We know very well, 
that the phrase above alluded to, has, 
like other objectionable phrases, re- 
ceived its peculiar explanation. ''The 
king of England," say that dass of 
writers who imagine that they are 
serving the interests of the Churcn, by 
representing her as absolutely incapa- 
ble of improvement — *' the King of 
England is declared in our litur^ to 
be most religious, not in his individual 
capacity, but because he is the head of 
the Church." 

We are not pleased with this expla*- 
nation, not only because it bears a- 



SB, The Church qfEnglam^ ^Jm. 

Bttong rttemblanee to Jesuitical 8o« Bhonld wish to see this change effect- 
phistry^ but because we can discover ed only in cases of absolute necessity; 
no solid authority upon which it is for it cannot be denied^ that much of 
grounded. But were it ever so correct, the solemnity of the ceremony is d^ 
why employ language in any depart- stroyed when even two persons pB>> 
ment of public worship, such as shall take of the elements, and are acU 
stand in need of interpretation ? We dressed by the priest at the same 
have already recorded it as our opinion, time. \ 
that the State-prayers recur with too Our correspondent has fartber- 
xnuch frequency, and with too much thrown out a hint or two on the sub« 
formality ; we have now only to add, ject of baptism, under the idea that 
that were the royal family to receive the matters to which he refers may not 
the benefit of the Church's prayers have occurred to ourselves. He ob« 
once on every occasion of meeting, it jects, for instance, to the service, be« 
would be sufficient. Greater effect, cause God is first of all entreated to 
also, would be given, were the name grant to the child remission of his 
omitted, for the introduction of which sins, and yet the child is immediately 
there is no necessity. There are no after represented as innocent. Doubt- 
rival princes now-a-days — one in St less there is an apparent contradiction 
James's, the other over the water — here ; but we have always considered 
and hence no man will pray, who it as so trifling, and so easily seen 
prays at all, except for the rao- through, that it never once struck us 
narch actually in possession of the as deserving of notice. The truth ap- 
jthrone. pears to be this, the forgiveness of 
Again, it is impossible not to con- sins here prayed for has no reference, 
cur in the sentiment, that if, under and can have none, in the case of a 
any circumstances, the present mode mere infant, to sins past, farther than 
of administering the elements in the as the infant, in common with the 
Lord's Supper be tedious and unedi- whole human race, is affected by the 
fying, the sooner that mode is changed transgression of its first parents. In 
the better. In our former paper on the guilt of that transgression the in« 
this subject, we said, that tlie Com- fant cannot, indeed, partake, for guilt 
munion service had our unqualified is an act of an individual mind, and 
approbation. We commended it then, acts of the mind are not hereditary* 
because it is striking without mum- Still the child is liable to the penalty 
mery, affecting without being super- incurred by the fall ; and hence, when 
stitious ; and so far as these facts are the priest prays that God will grant to 
concerned, we again repeat our com- it forgiveness of its sins, he only em« 
mendation. But it is nevertheless ploys a peculiar language to express a- 
quite true, that where the bread and scriptural idiom, an idiom by which 
wine come to be administered by a the terms sin and guilt are often used 
single priest to an hundred and fifty or where the consequences arising from 
two hundred communicants, the conti- sin are alone intended to be expressed, 
nual repetition of the same phrases to Or it may be, that the forgiveness of 
each individual of the number, causes, sins spoken of in the baptismal ser- 
and can hardly fail to cause, at least vice, has reference to such sins as the 
extreme languor and listlessness both child shall in after life commit — it 
in the clergyman and in his congrega- certainly can have no reference what- 
tion. To remain so long, too, as the ever to sins past, which the child has 
process requires, in a cold church, not committed. Such is the light in 
especially in the season of Winter, which wc have hitherto regarded the 
may prove, and frequently djDes prove, question, and by thus regarding it we 
injurious to the health of old and de- have escaped its difficulties ; but it is 
licate persons. We see not why the itianifest that others have been less 
Clergy should not be permitted to ad- fortunate ; for if one so well versed iu 
minister the elements to three or four ' these matters as our present corres- 
communicants at once. In bestowing bondent have experienced a shock, 
confirmation, we observe that the how must the thing strike the multi- 
Bishops never scruple to set the cunon tude ? and hence we have, (herefore^ 
aside after this fashion ; the same no hesitation to say, that the ceremony 
liberty might, we think, be taken by so far stands in need of revision, 
the priests at the altar. Still we Besides these, there are other cir- 



■ . A.^ — 



i«w.3 



'7!to Church of England. 



•te 



cunurtaneeBWHiited out in our friend's 
letter^ whicUy as they had previously 
occurred to ourselves^ we shall treat 
as our own. We beg of him, however, 
to accept our best thanks for. his com- 
munication ; and to rest satisfied, that 
no exertion shall be wanting on our 
parts to fulfil his expectations. We 
Deg also to acknowledge the receipt of 
a tract by Dr Millar of Armagh,, to 
which we shall give our most atten- 
tive consideration. 

Having thus disposed of the remarks 
^of others, we proceed to offer a few of 
our own. 

In our paper upon the Book of 
Common Prayer, the only notice which 
we took of the sacraments, as admin- 
istered in the Church of England, had 
reference to the mode of administra- 
tion enjoined in the Kubrick. Speak- 
ing of baptism, in particular, we ob- 
jected strongly to the rule in force re- 
specting sponsors, by which parents 
are positively excluded from answer- 
ing for their own children. Our 
reasons for objecting to this arrange- 
ment were these, that in consequence 
of it, the offices of god-father and 
god-mother have ceased to be other 
than nominal; that persons daily 
pledge themselves to a duty which 
they have no means of fulfilling ; and 
. that great inconvenience frequently 
arises from the unwillingness of a 
man's neighbours to connect them- 
selves so intimately with him and his 
family. These are very weighty ob- 
jections; but they are not, perhaps, 
the most weighty that may be offered ; 
they certainly tend not, in the same 
degree with those which we are now 
about to enumerate, to hold up our 
venerable establishment to the scorn of 
mankind as a mass of contradictions 
and absurdities. The following is the 
canon in force relative to the matter 
now before us. 

'^ No parent shall be urged to be 
present, nor be admitted to answer as 
god-father for his own child ; nor any 
god-father or god-mother shall be 
suffered to make any other answer or ^ 
speech, than by the Book of Common 
Prayer is prescribed in that behalf; 
neither shall any person be admitted 
god-father or .god-mother to any child 
at christening or confirmation, before 
the said person so undertaking hath re-' 
ceived ilie holy communion" Of the first 
clauses in this canon we have already 
said enough to show the impropriety, 



and we wisfa/at preflent^tdroAr aftur 
remarks upon the last. 

That ^ere is anything essentially 
wrong in hindering persons from an« 
swering for a child at the font till after 
they have themselves received the sa* 
crament, we are very far from desiring 
to assent ; ttie only question is, how 
has the injunction been attended ta^ 
or rather, how can it be attended to in 
the existing state of society ? It is a 
well-known fact, that if out of a pa-« 
rish containing fifteen hundred or 
two thousand inhabitants, two hun-« 
dred persons are to be found, who re-i 
gularly or eveU' occasionally receive 
the sacrament, the number of com« 
municants is in that parish very great; 
in the generality of parishes we believe 
the number to be much less. The 
average number of christenings, how-i 
ever, in parishes of this population, 
may be taken at one hundred, or one 
hundred and fifty per annum. Now, 
as each child requires three sponsors 
at the least, two god-fathers and one 
god-mother if a boy, two god-mothers 
and one god-father, if a girl, it is 
clear, that were none but communi- 
cants admitted to discharge the office, 
each would find himself called upon 
to undertake the most serious charge 
which a christian man is ever called 
upon to undertake, twice, if not three 
times every year. Were that man de- 
sirous of fulfilling his duty, and did 
the law of the land permit him to re- 
deem a pledge so solemnly given, it is 
self-evident that the most common 
attention to his own affairs must hin- 
der him from obeying his inclinations ; 
whereas, in the present posture of af- 
fairs, each communicant, were the 
canon rigidly enforced, would be re- 
quired to perjure himself— that is 
all— .ever and anon, in order to se- 
cure for the children of the parish 
the benefits of Christian baptism. Com- 
municants, however,1 are, generally 
speaking, the most serious and right- 
minded members of the Church. 
They consequently hesitate to under- 
take a charge, which they are quite 
aware it will not be in their power to 
fulfil ; and hence the form, for it has 
become nothing better than a form, of 
standing for infants, as it is called, is al- 
most universally left to men and women, 
the great majority of whom neither 
know nor care anything about the mat- 
ter. We have ourselves seen an infant 
presented to the priest, and all the custom 



'40 

'vmry ^ecbntiotis nwd^ by a man 
Ifirhose contempt for religion was well 

ItRown, but whom die parent select- 
ed because be was rich^ and because 

' lie hoped that the rich infidel's god* 
iBon ni^t be remembered in his will. 

'There are very mischievous conse- 
quences arising out of a regulation^ 
certainly not enjoined in scripture 
either by precept or example. 

Nor does the evil rest nere. The 
clergy, to a man, feel the impractica- 

'bility of acting up to the canon ; they 
consequently seldom scruple about ne- 
glecting it. Spme do so openly. They 
receive parents and strangers indis- 
criminately, and perhaps they do 
right ; but there are others of more 
tender conscience, over whom the re- 
flection has considerable weight, that 

' previous to this ordination they solemn- 
ly swore to obey the canons, and can- 
not therefore violate them with im- 
punity. How do they proceed ? Why^ 
thus : Knowing perfectly \firell that it 
is the father of the child who presents 
him, and that he presents him in his 
own proper person, they yet affect not 
to know this. They presume that he 
stands as proxy for some absent 
friend. How much is it to be re- 
g;retted, that Christian ministers should 
be driven to such alternatives, and 
Christianity itself exposed to ridicule, 
by the pertinacious retention of a law, 
erroneous in its principle from the 
first, and now generally acknowledged 
to be such. 

Again, it is distinctly asserted in 
the Church Catechism, that " Christ 
hath ordained two sacraments as ge- 
nerally necessary to salvation, that is 
to say. Baptism and the Supper of 
the Lord.' In the baptismal ser- 
vice likewise, certain expressions are 
used, which convey the idea, that 
by a due reception of that rite, and by 
dms, persons " bom in sin, and the 
children of wrath, are made the chil- 
dren of grace." What the Church of 
England means by this phrase we 
take it not upon us to determine ; 
but we presume it has some meaning, 
and the obvious meaning undoubtedly 

. is, that there is no assurance of salva- 
tion to any person who has not par- 
taken of that initiatory sacrament. 
We believe likewise, that such of the 
clergy of the EngUsh Church as know 
why thev are members of that Church 
rather than of the Churches of Scot- 



TV Ckurt^ ofEnghnd. 



tjMU 



10 



laiid or GrcncffB, TCgtvd ^Kptim - fli 
valid, onl^ when it hu been coufa r re d 
by a Pnest or Deaeon CanonieallT, 
that is Episcopally ordained. ThongD, 
therefore, these gentlenfen may, imd^ 
we presume, do, universally enconnge 
the nope, that the circumiftancef^ ha- 
ving b^en baptised by a Fresbyteriui 
Minister will not stand in the way of 
a man's acceptance hereafter, who hn 
laboured " to work out his own salvft- 
tion with fear and trembling," we 
presume at the same time, that Ihey 
would notwillingly admit to the Lor3% 
table any individual thus baptifled. 
This may be called bigotry ; but this 
is the doctrine of the Church ; unleab, 
indeed, which we by no means con- 
ceive to be the case, the Church ao" 
knowledges the validity of lay^bap- 
tism. How then must the clergyman 
act when the individual dies, whom 
in his life-time he never regn^ed as 
a member of the Church, nor conse- 
quently as his brother ? Why, he dare 
not refuse to read over his corpse the 
very same form of words which he 
reads over the corpses of the most 
pious and most popular of his own 
flock ; and the body of a man, which, 
when animated by the spirit, never 
entered the Church at all, must now 
be carried within its walls, and flrom 
thence to the grave, with all the pomp 
and solemnity which usually attends 
the English burial-service. We look 
upon this as an extreme hardship im- 
posed upon the English clergy ; but 
it is not the greatest hardship to which 
they are subjected. 

It is well known to all our readers , 
that the Quakers never baptise at all ; 
and that Baptists defer their ceremony 
till after the catechumen shall have 
arrived at years of discretion. The 
dipping of a Baptist must, however^ 
in tne eyes of an English cler^rman, 
have exactly the same value vnth the 
baptism conferred by a Presbyterian 
divine. Those, therefore, whose ig- 
norance of the constitution of the 
Church, or indifference to it, leads 
them to consider the person baptised 
by a minister of the Kirk, as canon- 
ically admitted into Christ's Church, 
cannot possibly deny the saQie privi- 
ledge to the person dipped by the 
Baptists; hence he who experiences 
no reluctance to read the burial-ser- 
vice over the body of the flrst, will 
experience none in reading it over the 



im.'2 



Tke Church qf BngiancL 



41 



body of UoM last But the Baptist 
may die betore he has been dipped ; 
tlie case, indeed, occurs daily. May 
the dergyman*^ refuse to say of him, 
that he " rests in sure and certain hope 
of the resurrection of eternal life/' 
that '' God hath taken unto himself 
the soul of his dear brother ?" &c. &c. 
He may refuse, no doubt, if he be so 
disposed, but the certain reward of 
his refusal will be, not the thanks of 
the BishoDs and, the praise of his 
brethren, out the penalty of a pre- 
munire. What must an inquiring 
age like the present think of all this ? 

But we have not yet done with the 
burial-service, as it connects itself with 
the canons and other formularies of 
the English Church. Let our readers 
bear in mind, that one of the penal- 
ties of excommunication is the denial 
of Christian burial to the body of the 
excommunicated person. Let them 
farther bear in mind, that every cler- 
gyman of the English Church takes a 
solemn oath« at his ordination, that he 
will act in obedience to the laws or 
canons of the Church, into whose mi- 
nistry he has entered. Let them keep 
this in mind, and then read the follow- 
ing extracts from the book of canons, 
enacted by convocation, sanctioned 
by the King, and still in force. We 
should apologize for the length of our 
extracts, did we not feel that the mat- 
ter ought to be looked at connectedly 
or not at all. 

9. " Whoever shall hereafter affirm, 
tliat the King's Majesty has not the 
same authority in causes ecclesiasti- 
cal, that the godly kings had amongst 
the Jews and Christian Emperors of 
the primitive Church, or impeach any 
part of his r^al supremacy in the said 
causes restored to the crown, and by 
the laws of this realm therein establish- 
ed, let him be excommunicated ipso 
facto, and not restored but only by the 
Archbishop, after his repentance, and 
public revocation of those his wicked 
errors;" Is there a Roman Catholic 
in the empire who does not deny all 
this ? ana may a Clergyman of the 
Church of England refuse to read over 
him the burial-service ? The laws of 
the land say no. 

3. " Whosoever shall hereafter affirm, 
that the Church of England, by law 
established under the King's Majesty, 
is not a true and apostolic Churcn, 
teaching and maintaining the doctrine 
of the apostles, let him be excommu- 
Vol. XIX. 



nicated ipso facto, and not restored but 
only by the ArclU)ishop, after his f e- , 

Eentance, and public revocation of thia 
is wicked errors." There is not a sect 
of Dissenters in the kingdom by whom 
the above assertion is not made ; yet 
all are entitled to burial accordina to 
the forms of the established churc|kr 

4. " Whoever diall hereafter affipffo, 
that the form of God's worship in the 
Church of En^nd, establisned 'by 
law, and contained in the Boo]( of 
Common Prayer, and Administration 
of the Sacraments, is a corrupt super* 
stition, or unlawful worship of God, 
or containeth anything in it that isre* 
pugnant to the scriptures, let him be 
excommunicated ipso fa do, and not 
restored, but by the Bishop of the 
place, or Archbishop, after his repent- 
ance, and public revocation of such 
his wicked errors." 

5. ^' Whoever shall hereafter affirm, 
that any of the nine-and- thirty articles 
agreed upon by the Archbishops and 
Bishops of both provinces, and the 
whole Clergy, in the convocation hold* 
en at London, in the year of our Lord 
one thousand five hundred and sixty* 
two, for avoiding diversities of opi- 
nions, and for the establishing of con- 
sent touching true religion, are in any 
part superstitious or erroneous, or 
such as he may not with a good con- 
science subscribe unto, let him be ex- 
communicated ipso facto, and not re- 
stored, but only by the Archbishop, 
after his repentance, and public revo* 
cation of such his wicked errors." 

6. " Whosoever shall hereafter af- 
firm, that the rites and ceremonies of 
the Church of England, by law esta* 
blished, are wicked, anti-Christian, Gt 
superstitious, or such as, being com- 
manded by lawful authority, men who 
are zealously and godly affected may 
not with any good conscience approve 
them, use them, or, as occasion requi^^ 
red), subscribe unto them, let him be 
excommunicated ipso facto, and not 
restored until he repent, and publicly 
revoke such his wicked errors." 

7. " Whoever shall hereafter affirm, 
that the government of the Church of 
England under his Majesty,- by Arch- 
bishops, Bishops, Deans, Archdeacons^ 
and the rest that bear office in the 
same, is anti-Christian and repugnant 
to the word of God, Yet him he ex- 
communicated ipso facto, and so coui^ 
tinne until he repent, and publicly 
revoke such his wicked errors. ' 

F 



at 



Tht Church of England. 



tJin. 



8. " Whosoever shall hereafter afi< 
firfti or teach, that the form -and man- 
ner of making and consecrating Bi- 
shops, Priests, or Deacons, containeth 
anything in it that is repugnant to the 
word of Grod, or that they who are 
made Bishops, Priests, or Deacons, in 
that form, are not lawfully made, nor 
ought to he accounted, either by them- 
selves or others, to be truly either 
Bishops, Priests, or Deacons, until they 
have some other calling to those di- 
vine offices, let him be excommunica- 
ted ipso facto, not to be restored until 
he repent, and publicly revoke such 
his Wicked errors." 

9. *' Whoever shall hereafter sepa- 
rate themselves from the communion 
of saints, as it is approved by the 
Apostles' rviles in the Church of Eng- 
land, and combine themselves together 
in a new brotherhood, accounting the 
Christians who are conformable to the 
doctrine, government, rites, and cere- 
monies of the Church of England, to 
be profane and unmeet for them to 
join with in Christian profession, let 
them be excommunicated ipso facto, 
and not restored, but by tne Arch- 
bishop, after their repentance, and 
public revocation of such their wicked 
errors/* 

10. " Whosoever shall hereafter 
affirm, that such ministers as refuse to 
subscribe to the form and manner of 
God's worship in the Church of Eng- 
land, prescribed in the Communion- 
Book, and their adherents, may truly 
take unto them the name of another 
church, not established by law, and 
dare presume to publish it, that this 
their pretended church hath of long 
time groaned under the burthen of 
certain grievances imposed upon it, or 
by the members thereof before-men- 
tioned, by the Church of England, 
and the orders and constitutions there- 
in by law established, let them be 
excommunicated, and not restored, 
until they repent and publicly revoke 
such their wicked errors." 

11. " Whosoever shall hereafter af- 
firm or maintain, that there are within 
this realm other meetings, assemblies, 
or oongregatiens of the King's bom 
subjects, than such as bv the laws of 
this land are held and allowed, which 
may rightly challenge to themselves 
the name of true and lawful churches; 
let him be excommunicated, and not 
restored but by the Archbishop, after 



his repentance and public reTOoatioo 
of such his wicked errors." 

12. " Whosoever shall hereafter af- 
firm, that it is lawful for any sort of 
ministers and lay-persons, or of either 
of them, to join t<^ether and make 
rules, orders, or constitutions in causes 
ecclesiastical, without the King's au- 
thority, and shall submit themselves 
to be ruled and governed by them^ 
let them be excommunicated ipso 
facto, and not be restored until ihey 
repent, and publicly revoke those theur. 
wicked and anabaptistical errors." 

Such are eleven out of the twelve 
first or leading canons of the English 
Church. We have not transcribed 
them without great pain to ourselves, 
and we venture to say that their pe- 
rusal will cause great pain to our read- 
ers, — at least to that portion of them 
who, like ourselves, wish well to the 
religion of their fathers. It will be 
seen, that they are so framed as to 
place under the ban of excommunica- 
tion every sect and denomination of 
persons, (except such as continue with- 
in the pale of the established Church ; 
for an excommunication ipso facto 
needs not a formal pronunciation to 
render it effective. Of this Archbishop 
Wake, in his '* Appeal in behalf of 
the King's Supremacy," has distinctly 
assured us, where it is plainly decla- 
red, that " there is no need, in this 
case, of any admonition, as where the 
judge is to give sentence ; but every 
one is to take notice of the law at his 
peril, and to see that he be not over- 
taken by it. And, secondly, that there 
is no need of any sentence to be pro- 
nounced which the canon it^lf haUi 
passed, and which is, by that means, 
already promulged upon every one as 
soon as ne comes within the obligation 
of it. In other cases, a man may do 
things worthy of censure, and yet be- 
have himself so warily as to escape the 
punishment of the Church, for want 
of legal evidence to convict him. But 
excommunicatio eanonis, ligat etiam 
occulta delicta. Where the canon gives 
sentence, there is no escaping; but 
the conscience of every man becomes 
obliged by it, as soon as ever he is sen- 
sible that he has done that which was 
forbidden, under the pain of such an 
excommunication." 

The Church of England has been 
severely censured for ever giving her 
sanction to enactments so dogmatical 





18S6.3 



The Church of England, 



^9 



or uncharitable^ It is not on this 
nround that we are disposed to take 
uie matter up. No doubt, the canons 
breathe a spirit very little in accord- 
ance with the liberal temper of the 
present times ; but of the liberality of 
the present times we are no admirers. 
In nine cases out of tcfn^ it expends it- 
self in mere words; and in the tenth 
case it runs wild into licentiousness. 
The matter to which we are desirous 
of drawing the attention of the pu'blic 
is the positive contrariety— the down- 
right hostility — ^between the ecclesias- 
tical and common law of the land. 
The Church has declared all sectaries 
and dissenters^ whether Popish or Pro- 
testant^ excommunicate^ and accord- 
ingly unfit to receive Christian burial. 
The ministers of the Church swear to 
pay attention to that order. Then 
comes the common law^ which de- 
clares^ that unless they disregard the 
rules of their body, and violate their 
own oaths^ they shall be liable to heavy 
penalties. God help poor Church in 
a strugirle so unequal ! 

All this is very bad ; but the sub- 
ject of which we are now going to 
treat is a thousand degrees worse. At 
the period when the struggle between 
the Reformed and Popish Churches 
w^s at its height, or rather just after 
the former had gained the ascendency 
in these realms^ it occurred to the 
heads of the nation, that the best 
means of preserving that ascendency 
would be to exclude from all share in 
the government, and indeed from all 
public and responsible offices, such 
persons as were not wilhng to conform 
to the religion established by law. In 
its principle the resolution was a wise 
one. It is sheer folly to talk of the 
natural right of every man to enjoy 
places of temporal power and influence, 
without respect being had to his reli- 
^ous opinions. There is no separat- 
ing a man's religious from his political 
principles ; and he who owns a foreign 
master in spiritual afiairs, will find it 
a hard' matter to persuade us that he 
denies to his spiritual roaster the 
right of interierence in affairs tempo- 
ral. The soul and the body are not 
more closely linked together than a 
man's religious and political prejudices. 
Of the resolution itself, then, we think 
very highly; but of the test applied— i* 
of the metnod adopted for determin- 
ing whether or not the applicant for 
honour came within the privileged 



class, no serious peraon can think with- 
out horror. 

Every man, without exception^ who 
wished to qualify, as it is termed^ for 
the situation of a member of Parlia- 
ment, a magistrate^ or other responsi- 
ble trust, was originally required, to 
receive the sacrament in a parish 
church, and at the hands of an esta- 
blished minister, at least twice witjliia 
the six months preceding his appoint- 
ment. Among members of Parliament 
this proceeding is now abolished, an 
act of indemnity passing every session 
— in plain language, the test-law being 
every session repealed ; but we are mis- 
taken if the force of that repeal extend 
to county magistrates. Be this> how- 
ever, as It may, any person, no matter 
what his character may be, who de- 
sires to hold a public situation, ma^ 
present himself before the altar, and 
demand the sacrament. By canon 26, 
however, it is enacted, and most pro? 
perly enacted, that '' no minister shall 
m anywise admit to the receiving of 
the holy communion any of his cure 
or flock which he openly knows to 
live in sin notorious, without repent- 
ance." Nay, so far does the canon go, 
that even persons having a quarrel 
with other persons are excluded, till 
after such difference shall have been 
composed. Can the clergymen obey 
the canon? We fear not. We are 
much afraid, that he who should re- 
fuse to comply with the request of the 
applicant, applying for the political 
purpose above referred to, would find 
no shelter in the scandalous behaviotu: 
of him whom he had rejected. By 
such rejection the state might lose an 
able officer, and what is the respecta-p 
bility of the Church when put in com- 
petition with such a misfortune ? No- 
thing at all. The terrors of a premu- 
nire nang over the priest's head, and 
to avoid these he must set the canon 
at defiance. 

We are the last persons in the world 
who would desire to stir up animosity 
between the civil and ecclesiastical go- 
vernments of the country ; we should 
be extremely sorry to see the two 
branches of tne constitution separated, 
or the Church made entirely indepen- 
dent of the state. Long may the 
King of these Islands be '' in all causes, 
and over kll persons, ecclesiastical as 
well as temporal, supreme.'' But the 
state of utter slavery into which the 
Church has fallen cannot be kept 8C« 



u 



cret 6om the eyes of the woild ; and 
we take it upon us to affirm^ that not 
all the faultsof the dergy,— theircare- 
leflsness — their non-residence — their 
lukewarmness — ^and even their dissen- 
sions with one another, — ^not all these 
things combined^ had they been ten 
times greater than thev have been, 
have wrought the Church one hajf the 
mischief which has been wrought by 
her too ready compliance with the ag- 
gressions of her ally. The alliance, 
indeed, of which Warburton wrote, 
has long ceased to exist ; and in its 
Toom has come the connexion between 
master and servant. 

In common with the whole nation, 
we have rejoiced in the increased and 
increasing zeal manifested by the bi- 
shops; in their wise and just regula- 
tions touching the due performance 
of divine service in the churches ; and 
in the vigilance with which they seem 
determined to watch over the conduct 
of their clergy. We have seen, too, 
with great satisfaction, that one, at 
least, has resolved to subject every 
candidate for holy orders to an exa- 
mination^ not only on points of divi- 
nity, but on the much neglected, but 
most necessary, qualification of read- 
ing and delivery. In these days, it is 
past dispute, that a good voice, and an 
impressive manner, tend a thousand 
times more to draw people together, 
than the most profound knowledge of 
polemics, and the most rigid ortho- 
doxy of principle. We have observed, 
likewise, in the Charges of two of our 
bishops, the Bishops of Gloucester and 
Chester, several excellent hints, of 
' which it is our intention, on some fu- 
ture occanon, to speak more at large. 
All these matters we have seen with 
pleasure, because they come upon us 
as indications of a reviving spirit of 
zeal, from which much good may be 
expected ultimately to arise. £ut of 
this we are quite convinced, that their 
Lordships attribute more to petty 
abuses tnan they merit, and that they 
have not gone to the root of the evil. 
They seem to think that our parish 
churches are deserted, and the meet- 
ing-houses filled, chiefly because the 
parochial clergy have been neglectful 
of their duty. We know better. Thir- 
^ or forty years ago, it might be said 
uat within the Church of £ngland 
there were many careless stewards; 
at present, we confidently assert that 
tiiert are few indeed. Yet thirty or 



The Church ofMngUmd. C^^^ 

forty years ago, Disseat bste iiot> bj 
one-fifth part, the proportion whi» 
it now bears to the Estabtishment. 
Dissent has kept pace with the inoret^ 
sing exertions of the dergy ; Whence 
arises this ? We are at no loss for an 



answer* 

This is, or at least it is pleased to 
call itself, an enlightened age. All 
men read now-a-days— some even 
think— and many pretend to reason* 
A dissenting minister who should at- 
tack the Chiurch through the sides of 
her individual dergy, would hardly 
be listened to with patience. We 
ourselves know one case, in whidi a 
respectable minister of the Establish- 
ed Church was accused of illiberality, 
and otherwise vilified by his dissent- 
ing rival; and what was the oonse« 
quence ? That many members of the 
congregation which listened to the 
philippic deserted the meetinj;'^ be- 
cause they would not hear an indivi- 
dual pulled to pieces fh>m the pulpit. 
Our readers may take our word for it, 
that a very difierent and a more suc- 
cessful course is pursued by the pro- 
pagators of Dissent, than to discourse 
and dwell upon the errors of the E»« 
tablished clergy. They sdike at prixi- 
ciples and things, and not at men* 
Tney ask their people, whether Christ 
be or be not the only head of his 
Church ? whether he have, or have not, 
left with it, rather than with the civil 
magistrate, the power of determining 
all points which refer to matters pure- 
ly spiritual? whether it be lawftil 
in the sight of God to prostitute the 
holy sacrament, by making it the 
pledge of a man's political sentiments ? 
with many other questions of the same 
import. They ask, moreover, whe^ 
ther it be not blasphemy in one man 
to declare, that he absolves another 
from his sins ? whether it be not the 
next thing to blasphemy to assert, 
that the thief cut down from the gal-, 
lows, the derider of his Maker and 
his Redeemer, and the pious Christ- 
ian, all die in equally ^* sure and cer- 
tain hope of the resurrection to eter- 
nal life?" To these questions they 
add the power of ridicule and the 
force of contrast : " What kind of a 
church is that," they say, ** which 
first declares us to be cut off as rot- 
ten members from the communion of 
saints ; and yet, because the dvil ma- 
gistrate enjoins it, pronounces us dear 
brethreH at our graves? What can 



i9sta.2 



The Church of England. 



46 



we think of a society^ which in ono 
formulary declares baptism to be ' g^i- 
nerally necessary to salvation/ and in 
another pronoxmces the reverse ? and 
of what respect is a spiritual body 
worthy^ which thunders forth its ana- 
themas and excommunications^ know- 
ing all the while^ ^t it possesses no 
power to enforce the penalti^ incur- 
red by its sentence?" These, we do 
assure the Heads of the Churph, are 
the arguments employed bv the Dis- 
senters ; and what can the clergy urge 
i^ainst them? Absolutely nothing. 
Thi^ mouths of the clergy i^e shut, 
and so Dissent increases. 

We mistake the matter ojuch, if 
there be not on the Episcopal bench, 
at the present moment, more than one 
enlightened prelate who feels the truth 
of all that we have been saying. To 
name names is, we are aware, invi- 
dious; but '' one we woidd select 
from that proud throng," because he 
is, as he deserved to be, one. of the 
most popular and influential bishops 
whom modem times have seen. We 
call upon Dr Bloomfield to come for- 
ward at the present crisis, and to fight 
the Church's battles in a field where 
she stands even more in need of his 
aid than against the Roman Catholics. 
Against Catholicism a whole host of 
able champions are enrolled. We 
have the Chancellor and Lord Liver- 
pool among the Peers ; Mr Peel and 
many others in the Commons ; whilst 
out of doors, not the members of 
the Church only, but all classes of 
Dissenters, Socinians alone excepted, 
are with us. But who is there to 
stand up for the Church ? Who, ex- 
cept ouraelves, has ventured to speak 
the truth, or to declare the reason 



why the Church has lost ground, and 
the Dissenters gained it r No one. 
Timidity, or a worse principle, has 
, hitherto k^t men silent : We trust It 
shall not be always so. 

What, then, do we desire? In tbs 
first place, to see the Convocation onoe 
more established in a state of ais per- 
fect independence as may be opmpaii 
tible widi the political welfare of the 
empire. Secondly, to behold all the 
canons, formularies, creeds, and' cere^- 
monies of the Church, subjected to a 
close scrutiny, and made suitable to 
the times in which we live. Is it 
not a standing reproach agtunst the 
Church, diat she continues to this 
hour under the domkiion of the spirit 
of the dark ages ? Are we not told, 
on all hands, Uiat the temper of the 
Church is to persecute those without 
her pale, and that she is prevented 
from indulging that humour, only by 
the humane interference of the civU 
government ? It is in vain for us te 
answer, that the canons quoted a few 
pages ago have all become obsolete; 
and that they are virtually abrogated, 
or, at least, that the feelings which 
dictated their compilation have chan- 
ged with the change of times. Pre- 
judiced men either do not, or will not, 
believe us ; and hence a thousand 
things are alleged concerning us, of 
which we know ourselves to be inno- 
cent, but in the matter of which we 
find it utterly impossible to prove our 
innocence, for our laws are quoted 
against us ; and what can we say in 
reply to them ? 

We have not yet half exhausted our 
subject ; but, fearful lest we exhaukt 
the patience of any of our readers,* we 
lay it down till next month. 



46 



Modern Cokiic Dtamn. 



CJtft. 



MODERN COM|(C DRAMA. 



loyr's victory; or> thsj^chool for FAIBS.* 



Few things connected with the pub- 
lic taste are so remarkable as the change 
which has taken place in late years, 
both as to audiences, actors, and wri- 
ters, in the comic drama. There seems 
to be a gradual deca^ in the relish for 
pure comedy ; in lieu of which the 
public are regaled with five-act farces, 
and two act prodigies, which are nei- 
ther Farce, Comedy, nor Tragedy. Even 
when Comedy presents her decent per- 
son, she is so'distorted from her natu- 
ral orderly shape, and made to cut 
such antic capers, that her most faith- 
ful lovers can scarcely recognise her. 
Lifeand Nature are no longer the staple 
subjects of imitation on the stage. The 
drama has so far advanced in invention, 
that its persons are not the representa- 
tives of anything which the living 
world holds, but the genuine and un- 
disputed offspring of the authors' 
brains. In short, the Comic Muse, and 
her friends the players, have entered 
into a grand confederacy against the 
shaking sides and aching jaws of the 
whole play-going public ; and provided 
shouts of laughter attest'their triumph, 
care nothing for the still small voice 
of reflecting criticism. 

Our most popular comic performers 
(with, doubtless, two or three most 
respectable exceptions) are those who 
excel in broad farce, and who carry the 
largest share of its rant, grimace, and 
buffoonery into the higher department 
of the comic drama. The well-bred 
gentlemen and graceful ladies, who 
were deemed by our fathers and mo- 
thers such good company, as to give to 
the pieces in which they bore a part, 
the name of genteel comedy, appear, 
indeed, under the same appellations, 
and speak the same language; but 
they have forgotten their old-fashion- 
ed good manners, and seem only to 
remember that it is easier to provoke 
laughter, than to excite interest or 
admiration. 

A good comedy, well acted, is per^ 
haps as great a treat as can be present* 
ed to a cultivated mind. Indeed, if 
we consider the true objects of the imi«. 
tative arts, it will appear that the dra^- 



mn approaches nearer to perfection 
tha n any of the others. The purpose 
common to them all is, to place baore 
the senses or the imagination copiet or 
combiinations of originals whicn exist 
in the* works of nature or of art ; and 
that imitation is productive of the lar- 
gest share of pleasure, which gives 
the moiU faithful copy of such origi- 
nals as possess, in tnemselves, most 
dignity .or interest. Sculpture and 
painting' are restricted, the one to a 
single posture, usually of a single per- 
son — the other to a single point of aii- 
tion where several are grouped. When 
they furnish copies merely of the lower 
animals^ or of inanimate things, they 
effect aU that art can accompliih in 
that kiixl of imitation ;'but when the? 
rise to the representation of maUj his 
passion s, his sympathies, or his actions, 
so far (ire they from succeeding in the 
attempt, that our pleasure in witnessing 
the result of it arises in a neat d^;iee 
from a sense of wonder, Uiat even a 
little has been done, where it seems so 
difficult to perform anything.' When 
we ga:z 3 with admiration, mixed with 
astonishment, at the Magdalen of Ca* 
nova, or at Raphael's Cartoon of Fknl 
preaching at Athens, we see Penitence 
person ified in the worn ifigureaf a beaiH 
tiful iK/oman, emaciated by lone efae- 
rished sorrows, or we witness tibe tri* 
umphfs of eloquence more than human^ , 
attest<:d by the looksof a varioas, igno- 
rant, and impassioned crowd ; but in 
both, it is a glance at only one mo- 
ment of existence, giving, indeed, ftom 
th at very narrowness of representatfoHy 
aj.i impulse to the fancy, but yet being, 
a s a representation, for the same rea* 
«on, unsatisfactory and imperfect. - 

But to poetry, all that man can do, 
or feel, or suffer, is but one wide and 
flowery field, in which subjects of re- 
presentation may be culled and com- 
bined ; and of all kinds of poetry, the 
dramatic possesses the largest means 
of presenting faithful copies from real 
existence. In other works of inven- 
tion, the reader has to fashion ont, in 
his own imagination, the forms and 
the situations which are not exhibitedj 



* Love*8 Victory ; or, The School 6 jr Pride, a Comedy in five acts, founded on the 
Spanish of Don Augustin Moreto. By George Hyde. First performed at the Thea- 
tre Royal, Co vent Garden, on Wedpesday, Nov. 16, 1B25. London: Hurst^ Ro- 
binson, and Co. ; Constable and Co* *Edinbnrg]?. 



1886-3 



Loves Viei^y i or, jO** School for Pride* 



bnt described, and is left to make such 
suppositions as he may, of the looks 
and gestures and tones of those whom 
the poet makes to act and to suffer. 
But that mysterious and impressive 
language Which nature addresses, not 
to me ear, but the eye, is "spoken in 
the drama abne. Nothing nearer to 
reality can be conceived in imitation ; 
and, accordingly, that imitative qua- 
lity which is found in man at every pe- 
riod of society, and at every stage of his. 
existence, from his cradle to his grave^ 
has made dramatic representations, in 
almost every nation, one of the earHest 
contrivances for public entertainment. 

Of the two grand divisions of the 
drama. Comedy is undoubtedly best 
calculated to afford that species of 
pleasn^ which arises from successful 
miitation. In Tragedy, the charac- 
ters are taken chiefly from a class of 
which the individuals are imperfect- 
ly and indistinctly known to us. How 
lively soever are the sym pathies they 
excite, these sympathies are for ever 
checked by the consdousness, that as 
they belong to a state of existence 
which can never be ours, their joys 
or their sorrows are such that we can 
scarcely ever hope or fear to share 
them. But in Comedy, the persons 
are taken, as it were, from among our- 
selves. We see upon the stage, if it be 
true and genuine Comedy, the virtues 
and the vices, the follies, levities,, and 
humours, the littlenesses and intrica- 
cies, that engage, and interest, and en- 
gross us in real life; our sympathies are 
roused in proportion to the closeness 
of the copy — and in that proportion we 
are pleased. It is a pleasure which, in 
common with that afforded by all the 
elegant arts, is of a quiet and gentie 
kind, — not leading to boisterous mirth, 
-^but mixing simlcs with reflection. 
What it wants, however, in intensity, 
js made up in duration. The plays of 
Sheridan, Farquhar, Vanburgh, Gold- 
smith, and Coleman, never tire us in 
repetition. The copy is as delightful 
at its tenth, as at its nrst presentation. 
It is like those wonders of the painter 
and the statuary above noticed, on 
which we can gaze again and again, not 
finding out new bealities, as some pe- 
dants say the^ can, but feasting still 
with undiminished appetite on thone 
which we have often relished. 

But it is most true, that a taste for 
this kind of gratiflcation, though it 18 
deeply seated in our nature, is suscep- 
tible of various changes, and as it may 
be cultivated and improved, so it ma]| 



4T 

be not only rendered dull and languid, 
but made almost wholly to yield to a 
orelish for meaner pleasures. Nume- 
rous are the instances of a total revo- 
lution wrought in the course of a few 
; generations, in the taste of a whole 
people. Shakspeare was in £ngland_ 
once banished from the stage; and 
there was a period when Lucan was 
at Rome as popular as Virgil. The 
time seems fast approaching with us, 
when the imitation of ordinary life in 
legitimate comedy, will yield its place 
upon the stage to exhibitions which 
gratify, not by the fidelity with which 
they copy life, but by exciting asto- 
nishment and laughter at the ingenious 
and successful efforts they display, in 
the invention of beings and incidents 
which could be furnished by ho con- 
ceivable^state of human existence. The 
fondness for excitement is so much 
stronger than a love of the more refi- 
ned and placid pleasures derived from 
the elegant arts, that novelties and 
wonders will, with the crowd, be al- 
ways more popular on the stage, than 
representations of life, manners, and 
nature. The popularity will indeed be 
transient, for the same thing cannot 
be twice the subject of wonder, and 
but seldom even of laughter ; but while 
a farce or a melo-drame is new, and is 
capable of exciting mirth or astonish- 
ment, it will continue to be attractive 
to the multitude. The frequent gra- 
tification of this propensity, not only 
tends to confirm and enhance it, but 
is sure to diminish the desire for those 
less boisterous pleasures to which it is 
in its nature so opposite. It is in this 
way that as Farce advances. Comedy 
retires ; writers and players create and 
increase a |fower to which they in turn 
must yield ; and in the framing of new 
plays, and in the acting of old ones^ 
the caterers for public amusement re-i 
gulate their talents and exertions ac- 
•cording to the inclinations of an au^^ 
(lience, who yawn and grow dull when 
t bey are not kept in successive roars 
Oif laughter. It is in the very nature 
of performances of this kind to be 
fraught with puerilities and absurdi* 
ties* which produce in cultivated minds 
not amusement, but contempt ; and 
whic^ among the luxurious classes of 
society, whose temper and habits unfit 
or disincline them for atrong excite-. 
ment, afford littie or no entertainment. 
Hence, when such exhibitions prevail, 
though the higher classes do not de-. 
sert the theatres — and though they 
may occasionally even encourage these 



46 Lovus Viokiry ; or, 

extraraeancieq, yet they gradually, 
«nd pernaps unconsciously, fall off m 
their attendance at places of public 
entertainment, where they find the re- 
presentations adapted for the noisy 
mirth of the multitude, in which they 
cannot sympathize. 

Such seems to be at present, with 
us, the condition of the comic drama. 
Mo^t of our late comedies have been 
written upon the plan of those compo- 
sitions which O'Keeffe and the artists 
of his school invented, or improved in 
extravagance, to destroy the illusions 
which Siddons and Kemble had raised, 
and enable the audience to take ven- 
geance for the distresses they had been 
made to endure, by laughing Tragedy 
out of countenance. ' Had Farce re- 
mained confined within its proper pro- 
vince, whatever critics may say of it, 
it would have had its claims to a re- 
spectable place in the literature of 
Britain. It is certainly a plant of in- 
digenous growth, and though wild, is 
not without its virtue. It may be, 
and it has been, made the medium of 
keen and effective satire, and in the 
hands of a writer of genius, though it 
may want the truth, may yet serve 
many of the purposes of Comedy. A 
folly or a foible is often best corrected 
by showing it in its most ludicrous 
and extravagant excesses, and if the 
characters are only well marked as in- 
dividuals, though they be such as 
could never have had a real existence, 
they may combine a moral with amuse- 
ment. WTioever has seen Munden, 
(shall we ever see anything like him ?) 
in that most genuine of farces, Modern 
Antiques, must have borne in his re- 
collections, for one year at least, a com- 
plete antidote against the infectious 
bite of an antiquary. 

The ascendency, however, which 
Farce has gained, and which is strength- 
ening daily, seems likely to lead at last 
to the total expulsion of legitimate 
Comedy from the stage. But this is 
not the only symptom which seems to 
tnark the decline and fall of the once 
bnllianl empire of Comedy in Eng- 
land. Authors appear to have for some 
time past abandoned all thoughts of 
working with British materials. The 
«cene and the characters are from 
Spain, or Italy, or Sicily; and real 
life at home seems too dull or too diffi- 
■cult for imitation. Why the old staple 
of the British drama, — the humours, 
the passions, and the foibles of British 
^riginals,-*has been thrown aside, we 



7h€ StAoolJor Pride. ;£|M. 

have not lust now spaoe to kiqi^; Imt 
It would be easy to show^ that thii ba» 
not happened from the tense which 
some have chosen to asaign^pro^pieH 
of refinepient, and thegeD|i«l assmii- 
lation of manners. There is not yet, 
and there probably never will be with 
lis, such sameness of character as ex- 
isted in France, when Moliere canied 
Comedy to a pitch of exceHence.neirer 
rivalled but in England. We have 
amongst us at this &j, a fund of pe- 
culiar and strongly marked chaiacter, 
which it is needless to say exceeds, both 
in its variety and in its capability of 
being copied for the stage, all that our 
next neighbours on the Continent have 
had for ages. There is stamped upon 
die very nature of an Ei^glisnman an 
individuality, which is unkn^|vn in 
the country where, eyen at this dxj. 
Comedy flourishes in fertility apd ?i« 
gour. The humours of the Frepch^ 
whether on or off the stage, are the bit* 
mours of classes, not o£ individuals. 
They have not,and they never had,thev 
Sir Peter Teazles, their Lord Oglebys, 
or their Job Thomberrys. These are the 
genuine growth of Great Britain, and 
they still exist among us inxichabnn- 
dance, requiring but the eye and the 
touch of genius to select and cbmhine 
them for the drama. Passion has in- 
deed retired as civilizatbn has gone 
forward. Tragedy, and the more so- 
her kinds of poetry which delight by 
the excitement of strong emotion, are 
in these quieter andhappier timeslosinff 
the materials which were furnished 
when society was ruder. But the pe- 
culiarities which amuse and instiuet 
by ridicule, and from which Coinedy 
draws all its choicest stores, whetlier 
for mirth or for moral, are with na 
nearly as various and as fresh as ever* 
It will be readily supposed, when 
we announce, that the play we are 
about to notice is in its scene, plot^ 
and character, wholly Spanish, that 
we do not assign it a very high rank 
in British Comedy. To British Co- 
medy, indeed, it can be hardly said to 
belong. There is nothing in it Eng- 
lish but the language. And yet it la 
impossible to re^d half-a-dozen pages 
of any part of it, without perceiving 
that the author, or adapter, is a man 
of taste and genius, ana has studied, 
with considerable effect, tiiose peietdi* 
arities, so little attended to by 'most of 
our modern playwrights, which dis- 
tinguish dramatic dialogue from all 
other styles (^written English* lliis 



}^^'2 



Loves Victory; or, the School for Pride. 



i9 



k no mean praise ; but the piece has 
other qualities/ which make us regret 
that Mr Hvde did not apply himself 
' to a task oetter suited to his own 
powers, than that of adapting to the 
British stage a foreign production^ 
.which, ^whatever be its merits iti its 
. native language, no genius in the 
translator or compiler could dress up 
to a rank higher than that of respect- 
able mediocrity. 

But before observing farther on its 
. merits, we must begin to give some 
account of the plot. We premise, 
howev^, that with the Spanish origi- 
nal, or the German version of it, to 
both which Mr Hyde with great can- 
dour acknowledges his obligations, we 
have nothing whatever to do. It is 
seldom fair criticism to make compa- 
risons between imitations and origi- 
nals in the drama, when the claim to 
originality is honestly and formally 
abandoned. The writer is entitled, in 
common justice, to have the piece 
which he offers for our amusement 
tried upon its own merits, and by a re- 
ference to its avowed purpose ; and in 
estimating the claims of " Love's Vic- 
tory" upon our favour, we shall not 
travel out of the comedy as it now lies 
before us. 

The plot may be easily told. It has 
the advantage of simplicity ; and is, 
indeed, not very uncommon either in 
. the general design or in its details. 
The Princess Diana, only child of the 
Duke of Barcelona, is in the predica- 
ment of all rich heiresses, — ^beset by a 
multitude of suitors. She has, how- 
ever, very early imbibed certain '^max- 
ims which she holds as dearly as her 
life," but which are generally suppo- 
sed, both by poets and by the world, 
not to be very common with her sex. 
One of these maxims, and that which 
forms the pivot of the drama, is, Owe 
' like to give a lady's sentiments in ner 
own words,) *^that she regards the 
choice between marriage and death 
with perfect indifference." And so far 
does she carry this sentiment into ac- 
tual practice, that — again somewhat 
differing from the reputed propensi- 
ties of her sex — she not only presents 
a front of awful coldness toner ad- 
mirers, but even to Donna Laura and 
Donna Louisa, her cousins ^nd in- 
timates,— nay, to Donna Floretta, her 
maid of honour^ she holds the same 
appearance of inflexible Flatonism. 
Tne following is a specimen. 

Vol. XIX. 



ACT L 8cBN^ tiL 



The Pnnceul's Apartment^ decanted wkh 
. painHngs, sculpture, ^c. Donnas Lav- 

BA and Louisa, sUiing at a table mth 

books. Donna FLOaETTA and the Prin- 
cess Diana. 

P. Dia, Read me that passage again, 
. Floretta ; I like the story much, 

D, JFlor, (reads,) 
'' In vain Apollo woo*d the maid,— 

That peerless daughter of the stream ; 
Daphne implored Diana's aid, 

And gave the laurel deathless fame.*' 

P. Dia* It is admirable. 

Z>. Flor, I think it very dull. 

D, Lau. It seems to me rather af- 
fected. 

P. Dia. The language, I confess* is 
somewhat elevated ; but it befits the sub- 
ject 

D. Lou, It really does sound a little 
pompous. 

P. Dia, Granted. It is the poet*8 task 
to raise our feelings above the ordinary 
grovelling occupations of the common 
world. 

D, Lou, (^hing) Well. 

P. Dia, What means that exclamation? 

Z)r Lou, It may be all very true ; but 
I*m sure it must be very a*uel, and 
wicked too, to hate love, or anything 
else, without knowing what it is. 

P. Dia, Then you would be so much 
a child as to bum yourself before you 
shunned the fire ? ' 

D, Lou, Perhaps I might only get 
scorched, and the risk may not be so 
great as— 

P, Dia, As what? 

D, Lou, As the pleasure of trying it. 

P. Dia, {angrily) What do I hear ? Is 
this spoken in my presence? Donna 
Louisa, you must make your election 
between these sentiments ' and my so- 
ciety. 

Cold and stem beauties have been, 
time out of mind, privileged to inflict 
the hottest pains of the most feverish 
of passions ; and Don Cesar, Don 
Luis, Don Gaston, (all princes, be it 
remembered,) and a certain Don Pe- 
dro, an old courtier and superannua- 
ted beau, are rivals for this fair prize. 
Don Cesar, however, being the most 
deeply smitten, is of course at once 
the most desponding and the most 
persevering of them all. Very early 
in the piece, we find him planning, at 
the instance of Perin, the Princess's 
secretary, a scheme for overcoming 
the pride and obstinacy of her seem- 
ingly cold and unyielding temper* 

G 






50 

The diakgue in wbioh this most jus- 
tifiable conspiracy is ploltied may be 
Mgairded as a fair spearaen «f the am- 
thot'spow^s. rtis«piHtedia»dU¥ely, 
Mid ^posB^ss^ li merit i^i* they who 
ha^ attended mudi to the ^re act — 
dramas we suppose we must call them 
u-^the last ei^t or ten years, will 
deem of no mean value — ^tnat of de- 
veloping with brevity, and yet With 
clearness, what it is the men and 
■wdmen really are about, who speak, 
and smile, and frown, and move be- 
fore us, for our amusement. 

SCENE— -<^» apartment in the Palace, 

Enter Pketn. 

^er. There he sits with his head in 
his hand, like an unmated dove in the 
month of May. What a sigh! Heigho! 
tt^e're a pair of melancholy you£h8,— 



t^aft; 



Modem Comic Drama, 

oM VeStfiriuS, isike tolled hii iiettW», 
up to the HouteA hcjaten»^-«lid«— — 

Ter. HiW is exceediitg^ W«^l AdlK, 
^^rfnce. I!ikeit,atiilaAi]gladtbito^; 
fot he who cttn repreftS his feelings Ik a 
Alee man, though Hi -chains^ 

i). Cei, In cl)«n«? I^Dn*tmiderttnd. 

Per. Indee4 ! Oh, very w«IU I«Mi^- 
|>l«la. YMHr Highness is in lov«? 

J>, Oet. {ixmfiaed,') Poh ! ptih ! Fefin, 
thy old habits of bantering are Mt yet 
worn ont, I see. 

P^. Not like OUT oMNeopolltMikive, 
I gTant,«->fierce and consmning as yovr 
fiery-orested Vesuvius. No, yovr Higli- 
ness ptefers an elegant, dassieM, plaOMic 
eoklnesa, the Pygmalion tast^-^^roO^ ^ 
aheer marble ! 

D. Cei. Well, Perin, I know tfao««tt 
my friend, and will confess my lofe 4Dr 
this haughty beings-colder than maiUe 
itself. This very day, when every tongue 
was shouting forth my triumph,* I tom- 



both over head and ears, and scwcely a ^ my anxious eye towards her balcony; 

straw to catch at. That little imp of qh^ then she sat immovable, as thoi^ 

mischief, Floretta, has taken me in her g^^ were the statue of some goddess, 

toils, and this poor Prince, I see, is suitounded by a common, busy multitude, 

hound hand, foot, and heart in the chains ^^^ glancing down her proud contempt 

of the Princess Diana, who, for our com- ^p^^ my deeds. 

fort, forswears love as though it were a p^. Ay, there lies tbe poison. Bear 

wor^e plague than it is. 1 am the only th^t in mind, Prmce ! 

man whose presence she endures, and jr). (^ Wiat an enigmaislliis heart \ 

that only because she believes me to be Her scorn excites its tenderest amotion. 



.a woman-hater. Heaven help her, what 
a mistake she makes ! Yet, if she finds 
it out, adieu to ray "secretaryship — and I 



Her locfk is ice, yet ligjlits up iSames ; 

benumbing^ freezing it with eoM, tnd 

, ^ — .„ , ^ then consuming it with burning p a sAm ! 

leave Barcelona as little troubled ^nth Were her ^beauty aided by the eommon 
equipments as when I entered it after blandishments of woman, I odOldkM^ on 
my banishment from Naples. Is there j^ uBmoved,-^Ht that repulsive msjeMy 
no way to overreach a woman's whim, \g irresistible, 
and bring down this intolerable pride? 
Ah— if I could first win her for Don 
(iJesar,— then Floretta and I— excellent 
thought ! Here he comes, and I'll sound 
him directly. 



is irresistible. 

Per, All which means-i^sinkbig the 
poetry->-that the same thing which nei- 
ther makes a man warm nor iiold while 
be ean get it, being put out'of bis teadi, 
turns him to frost and fire. ]^wy, fMtai 
yourself; it certainly is not altogether so 
particularly agreeable to he in Jove with 
Per. Hem! Nay, he's quite gone,*- a statue ; but the matter may be mended, 
hi the very last stage. She calls all this philosophy*— I "Call it 

i>. C3?5. (withota perceiving Inm) Why fiddle-de-dee. 
should I cherish thus a being destitute of 2). Cts. Take care how you speak of 
lieart? her. 



Enter Don Cesaiu 



iV. {Umdly) Ahem ! 

.2). CeS' {starts, and assumes a careless 
air) Ah, Perin, my cOuntryttah ? Wel- 
come, welcome ! 

Per. I have been waiting for your 
Highness' salutation some time. 

2). C6S, Ay, ay ; in truth I was a little 
absent. One must sometimes think of 
our beautiful Naples, Perin. I was sailing 
across the matchless bay, and gazing upon 



Per. The fact is, Prmce — between na 
—she's not quite right somewhere or 
other. A mere picture puts up her de- 
vil, if it but represent a happy swain 
prostrate before his Cliloe. Iki her apart- 
ments you find nothing but Dq>hnes fly- 
ing from Apollo,— Anaxarates transform- 
ed to stone,— and Arethusas flowing 
about in every possible variety oi stream, 
as if murmuring at their unhappy ftite. 



* At a tilting match. 



I Wfi-D i^^'9 Vkiorif ^ or, 

p. CHk Xb^ Ml the name of Lqtc, 
511M ll«^ Is Uiere fbr me^? 

ftoh If you, attack her with the ri^ht 
Weepooi^ there is the certaintjF that na- 
ture will put philosophy hors de eombcUt 
and iMve you in possession of the citadel. 
I am but a sidmmer of surfluees, and lit- 
tle burdened with the learning of your 
books. Yet a man who walks about 
with Ms e^es open, may be philosopher 
enough to see how the world goes. {J*" 
mt m in g a mock unoui air.) And I do 
opine, advance, and maintain, that what 
is against nature is unnatural. It can- 
maft hold, because, twist it and turn it as 
you wiU-Hnorally* physically* mathema- 
tically-p-it tumbles to pieces. Upon this 
ineontrovertible position I build my sys- 
Jtam* The Princess Diana is a proud wo- 
man. AU women naturally expect admi- 
ration; withhold the tribute, and you 
mortify her pride ; without pride she is 
a simple womau ; and for a simple wo- 
man, it is natural to fitU in love.f«-There, 
air^ you have it— premises, inference, 
and conclusion.— What think you of 
X'rofessor Perin ? 

J). Ces, A truce to jesting, friend, and 
tell me what I am to understand by this ? 

Per. Simply, that if you adopt my ad- 
vice, I stake my head upon schooling her 
pride, and showing her philosophy in its 
true ridiculous colours. 

J), Cet. }i^xplain yoursejf. 

Fer. Remember, Prince, what won 
yuur love. Not Diana's beauty, but her 
pride. 

/>. Ce$, I begin to see the light. 

Fer, When she receives you coldly*.- 
nieet her with indifference. If she look 
scornful— throw her back a glance of pity, 
coupled with a eompaSftionate shrug of 
the shoulders, or a French twist, of the 
, moutli. The greater pride will subdue 
the lesser, and you have the dame as 
tractable as a newly- whipped child. 

/>. Ce$. 'Twere easily resolved— but 
then— I love ! 

Per, The greater the merit and the 
pleasure of the conquest Arm yourself 
with confidence, depend upon my aid, and 
you can't full of success. But remember, 
we must appear to have no understanding 
with each other, or wc are both ruined ; 
for both our fortunes are at stake. Be 
wise— be resolute— but, above all— be 
cold. 

D, Ccs, How is it possible to conceal the 
feelings which absorb my every thought ! 
Yet, if it must be so — gigantic as the ef- 
fort is-— it shall be made. 

Per. Bravo ! rely upon my support in 
time of need. But see where the Duke 
and your friends approach. We must 
not be marked together, and your dis- 
guise niuitt be worn even to them. Now, 



the School for Pride. 61 

F^.ee^ to work! Remember a good 
start is half tho race. lEnf. 

I)., Oes. Yea^ I see this war alon^ con. 
4ucts me to her love ; and hope begins 
to dawn, like the auspicious opening of 
a happy day. They corner and now the 
soeao commences. 

Don Cesar puto his dedgn in force 
at their Tkex,t meetiiig, wni^h takes 
place in the presence of the female 
mends and (be attendants of the 
Princess. She is in her own apart- 
ments, and with the conscious autho- 
rity of one accustomed to deal out her 
lectures on Platonism to submissive, 
or at least unanswering auditors, she 
utters an invective, (discouraging 
enough, it must be owned,) to her lo- 
ver, against that passion which, for- 
timately for fair ladies and dramatists, 
holds such ui^iversal sway over the 
world. Since we are recording the 
wiles with which her adversary in this 
subtile warfare seeks to win her with- 
in his power, it is. but fair to hear 
what she has to say in support of h^r 
cause. 

P. Dia, Well, then, if I peribroe must 
enter this arena» unwortlpF its I am to 
plead a cause so noble, I do it fearlesslyi 
because I know its greatness is supe- 
rior to detraction. I hold that the 
brief space of life should be devoteil 
to the care of those immortal ppwe», 
which give to pian the sovereignty in 
nature. In love, man fibdicates his 
throne, and is as mere an animal as any 
in the wide creation. Search history, 
consult the wisdom of all time, and show 
me where the benefits of love are 
written down. What dragged Semira- 
misfrom her proud glory? What has 
unlaurelled many a hero's brow ? Nigr, 
what destroyed the city of the hundred 
towers ? This vanity which you call low ; 
this creature of your fancies, who, being 
himself a child, is made a god by child- 
ren ! This pesfilence, which has ever been 
the abasement of the weak, the downbll 
of the strong, the degradation of my smc, 
the instrument of craft and tyranny in 
yours ! And yet you wonder that I oast 
it from me with aversion. Look at the 
other picture, where the star of mind 
rises above the waste of time, and sheds 
its light upon the wanderer's path, at 
once the guide and glory of humanity. 
No ! what Plato fondly dreamed shall be 
affected in my realms. Woman shall be as 
noble and as freS as man« 

We need hardly observe, that this 
bravery does not continue long. Don 
Cesar plays his part most s[droitly, 
uotwitluitanding one or two (of course 



62 Modern Comic Drama. U^ 

unaToidable) falterings* by which he tached^ as may be ta^^8e4» t^jSbi 



is nearly betrayed ; and before the close 
of the second act the Flatonist finds 
that die is but an ordinary mortal. 
Pride gives birth to partiality, or per- 
haps we should rather say aevelopes, 
when wounded, a partiality which, 
while it was flattered, like a petted 
child affecting aversion for his toy, it 
was able to conceal. Diana has al- 
ready acquainted Perin, the plotting 
secretary before mentioned, not with 
her love indeed, but with her rage 
and disappointment. Through him 
and her female associates she had ma- 
naged to become Don Cesar's partner 
in a masquerade, given by her father 
on the eventful day of this contest be- 



cretary^) contrives to bring liie Ut6 
couples just mentioned to a place 
where they can be seen by Diana ex* 
changing tneir vows of new-bom love. 
Music lends its soft enchantments to 
this scene of fondness ; and the pre* 
sence of Don Cesar, standing apart, 
and appearing utterly insensible to 
every tender emotion, inflames . the 
heart of the tortured Princess, from 
which Platonism has now almost 
wholly melted away. She is at once 
mocked by the sight of hapless which 
she cannot share, and by the cold and 
averted looks of the man with whom 
she would now give the world to' shaie 
it. That love is a most catching- dis- 



tween the softest and the sternest of order, prudent mothers know from 



the passions. She now engages the secre- 
tary to draw away Don Cesar (who is 
ungallant enough to desert his partner 
at her own imperious mandate) from 
the rest of the party to a bower in the 
carden, where she tries the effect of 
her musical talents, both vocal and in- 
strumental,— in vain. Her lover is 
schooled by Perin, and exhibits the 
most stoical insensibility to the strains 
of the syren. This whole scene is 
worked up with great skill. The loud 
rhapsodies of Don Cesar upon the su- 
periority of inanimate to animated na- 
ture, uttered while he gazes upon the 
flowers and scenery around him, wholly 
regardless of the presence or the mu- 
sic of his mistress, are some of the few 
instances in which declamation may 
be not out of place in comedy, and 
are amusingly contrasted with the pa- 
thetic efforts of Diana to arrest his 
attention, and her anxiety, now grow- 
ing every moment less angry and more 
painful, at witnessing his apparent ne- 
glect. 

In the Fourth Act, her distresses ac- 
cumulate. We are not sure if the au- 
thor's highest powers are not exerted 
in the manner in which he makes his 
machinery here work upon the feel- 
ings of his heroine. The contrivance 
is simple, but it displays a thorough 
knowledge of human nature. Don 
Cesar's two former rivals, Don Luis 
and Don Gaston, tired of their ineffec- 
tual vows at so cold a shrine, had 
abandoned their devotions to the Prin- 
cess, and paired off, the former with 
Donna Laura, the latter with Donna 
Louisa. Perin, who, we should say, 
is most ably supported throughout by 
Donna Floretta, the loving, laughing, 
good-natured maid of honour, (at- 



still surer sources than poetry; and 
our author has here illustrate, with 
considerable power, one of the most 
pervading principles of our nature, 
prone as it is in all things to sympathy 
and imitation. 

The Princess now tries the last, and 
usually the most successful resource of 
woman's art — -jealousy. But Don Ce- 
sar, through the indefatigable Perin, 
is apprized of her design, and foils it 
by repaying her in kind. She assures 
him, that at that v^ry hour she has se- 
lected Don Luis for a husband. Don 
Cesar replies, that, by some strange 
conjunction of the stars, he, at identi- 
cally the same hour, had chpsen Donna 
Laura for his bride ; and the Fourth 
Act closes with the despair of the dis- 
comfited Princess, and the sure and 
triumphant anticipations of her lo- 
ver. . 

In the beginning of the Fifth Act, 
we And the meshes completely drawn 
around the devoted victim of Love and 
Pride ; and no little art is displayed in 
making her, in the midst of comic in- 
cident and lively dialogue, an object of 
compassionate — we had almost said, of 
deep interest. Don Luis and his in- 
tended bride join in the plot against 
her. The former comes, as if just ap- 
prized by Don Cesar of his good for- 
tune, to pour out at her feet his grati- 
tude for her having made him the 
happy object of her choice, and leaves 
her without giving her time for ex- 
planation. Donna Laura comes to ask 
from her friend and cousin an approval 
of her own union with Don Cesar. The 
poor Platonist is here completely sub- 
dued, and her feelings gush their way 
ill the following passionate expres- 
sions, which well sustain the highest 



1886.;] 



Love'i Victory ; or, tht ^thool^or Pride. 



^, 



tone of lerions comedy, without at all 
passiiig beyond its legitimate range. 
EtUer D. Laura, and D. Floretta. 

I>. La\u Dear cousin, I am come to 
throw ni3rself upon your friendship. I^on 
Cesar has just offered me his hand, and 
18 gone to ask your father's sanction to 
oar nuptials. My uncle's will is mine, 
but r should be still happier with Diana's 
approval. 

[P. Diana tums aside to hide her 
emoHon» 
Consin, do you not hear roe ? 

P. Dia. Yes, Laura, I will unbosom 
all my feelings, and throw myself upon 
your love. Alas ! our hearts are like the 
restless winds that shift from point to 
point as the eye glances, yet have no visi- 
ble cause of motion. I will confess to 
you that Cesar's pride has irritated me 
beyond endurance. I have despised all 
whose passions I have ever moved, — and 
he, the only man that ever moved my 
heart, dares to despise me. I am insult- 
ed, wronged, dishonoured; and I claim 
that friendship at your hands, Laura, 
which you came to seek at mine. You 
sAiall avenge me. Let him endure the 
scorn which has tormented me. Repay 
his arrogance ; and let him find a heart as 
flinty as his own. My dear, dear Laura, 
let him suffer, writhe, consume with 
agony ;— then mock his tears, deride his 
thousand and accumulating woes. 

D, Lau, Mercy ! Cousin,— what coun- 
fiel would you give me ? If ingratitude be 
eriminal in him, it cannot be a virtue in 
me. No; if he loves me sincerely, I 
shall return the sentiment. 

P. Dia. Iiove him ! And wilt thou 
dare to love him ? 

D. Lau. Heavens, what do I hear ? 

D, Flo. {Aside to Laura.) Don't be 
frightened. 

p. Dia. Don Cesar thine, whilst I am 
dying for his love ? Never ! His very pride 
enchants me; and in the depth of that 
abasement which he caused, I still adore 
him. {Starting and turning Jrom Htem.) 
What's this ? Have I forgot my honour 
and my fame ? No,— thou perverse heart 
-—bleed! bleed! But let me save Diana's 
fame untainted. ( To Lauba .) Laura, you 
see I'm ill, — delirious. My tongue had 
lost the guidance of my reason. Believe 
not what it spoke so falsely, — but hear 
me, dearest Laura. Give him your hand 
— I am content. You will be happy- 
very — very happy — and I can rejoice in 
that. Go, then, and bless him with thy 
constant love. Go — enjoy that bliss, and 
leave me to a life of wretchedness and 
shame. — (Laura is going.) Yet stay ! O 
Heaven, it is impossible, I cannot bear 
the thought. The flame bursts forth and 



wraps me in deatructton. I sink— *I die 
—the victim of my pride. 

[Sinks into Laura's arms.' 

All the author's springs are now 
wound up, and in the next scene the 
grand feat is achieved. Diana is usher* 
ed in by her father, attended by the 
various parties whose destinies are to 
be decided at the same time with hers'; 
and she atones for all her sins against 
the sensibilities of womanhood, by a 
voluntary surrender to Don Cesar. 

We have said enough, we think, to 
communicate to those who have not 
yet seen this drama, the very favour- 
able impression which we have our- 
selves received from its perusal. The 
plot is certainly well managed. The 
principal action is not suspended for a 
moment. The distresses of the he- 
roine increase from act to act ; and the 
contrivances employed by her to re- 
lieve, and by her adversaries to enhance 
them, become more and more import- 
ant for their purposes, and are attend- 
ed with greater and greater success on 
the one side, and disappointment on 
the other, until the piece concludes. 
The dialogue, on the whole, possesses 
much dramatic )iower ; and although 
some flowery Spanish conceits are scat- 
tered through it, remindinp; us occa- 
sionally that at least its seeds are exo- 
tic, it IS, for the most part, sparkling^ 
lively, and well sustained. 

We wish we could stop here, but we 
cannot help deprecating, for the sake 
of the remaining part of this comedy, 
and the reputation of its author, the 
intrusion of two most intolerable bores, 
in the persons of a conceited old man, 
who does nothing but talk the silliest 
fustian, and of a most talkative servant 
of his, who yet scarcely says or does 
anything but make piteous complaints 
of incessant hunger. They have lite- 
rally no more to do with the plot, than 
have the witches of Macbeth with the 
distresses of Hamlet. They seem in- 
troduced for no other purpose than to 
raise a laugh among certain parts of 
the audience by the most common of 
all the tricks of broad low farce — the 
rapacious appetite of a starved servant 
— and by what is still less sufFerable to 
a lover of genuine English Comedy, a 
most absurd caricature of one of its 
most brilliant creations — LordOgleby. 
It is the constant fate of extravagancies 
of this kind, that, unnatural as they 
are of themselves, they derive addi- 
tional improbability from the circum- 
stances with which they are blended ; 



54i Modem Comic Drcuua. PJi 

and they are surer to e^Lert in torn a oooa of Iiim." That'« the «oaeo«li \riiQ 

Binister influence on all around tiheni. jested on my age. 
Thus, in the iirst plaoe^ it shocks all (They lay^ ai GakCi^ btjbimi') 

credibility that Lopez, the servant of " Neither will I wed with a fellawwhoee 

Don Pedro, shouki be k^ '^ to feed ^^^ ^^ hi the fineneaa of his hot^ or 



upon shadows " in the palace of the 
Duke of Barcelona, where his maste^ 
is actually an admitted suitor to Uie 
heiress of a Duchy ; and this, too, in 
the midst of splendid festivities. And 
in the next place, the repeated assu- 
rances of ill-usage which this hungry 
being gives us, at almost every ten mi- 
nutes of the play, and iu language of 
most formidable amplification on this 
pathetic theme, actually produces at 
last a suspicion that his master is the 
stingiest of mankind, and that the 
Duke and his daughter are most un 



in the sitting of a coat lap s for be wwM 
wear me, or cast me oS, accordiag la tho 
fiishion, like one of the featbera iia lak 
bat.*' That's the Prince of Bearoe. ht 
wears feathers in his hat ** But If the 
true man would have his closerts, let him 
serenade me in the garden this eveniiig» 
before the banquet ; and have a priest at 
hand." Don Pedro, thou art |he true 
man— and thou shalt have thy deserts ! 
I'll haste to Father Sebastian. Bu^lbr 
the serenade^-verily I am no band at a 
cantation. Yet, I'll try ; my vocalltica 
may be improved. (Trkitomg,) What 
is the reason that I sing not as well 



iwetically and unfeelingly careless of another? I have a mouth, aad a throat; 



the comforts of their household. The 
effect is, for so much, a weakening of 
the interest of the piece in its most im- 
.portant point. The incongruity must 
be gross indeed, which could excite 
these reflections ; yet such is the eflbct 
of a sacrifice to Farce in its worst ex- 
travagance, of Comedy, where Comedy 
might have stood secure widiout such 
humiliation. 

Of Don Pedro we have said little 
or nothing in our account of the plot, 
for the reason just mentioned, that in 
fact he has no. concern in it. A plot 
is, however, made for him ; and part 
of it is, that he shall receive a forged 
letter, as if from the Princess, from 
which he is to collect, that she is over 
head and ears in love with him. We 
would not willingly mar the merit of 
what we have already quoted; but 
criticiam is useless when it is not im- 
partial, and we must cite the follow- 
ing passage, if it were but to warn the 
author a|];ainst again descending to a 
species of composition, in which it is 
uo little praise to say, that he is utter- 
ly unfit for succeeding. 

Floretta takes Pedro aside and gives 

him the letter, 
2>. Flor. There, read that, and take 
care that you comply with its contents. 
You know not how soon you may be the 
happy man. 

(jS^ motions to the rest to retire and 
observe him.) 
JX Ped. (Alone in the front of tJie stage, ) 
—The ha])py man ? Heir-apparent to the 
dukedom ! 

(Opens the letter and reads,) 

** To marry a presumptuous, self-doating 

. fiiol were to undergo the necessity of 

ringing; ' Cuckoo' in his ears ; therefore, 

1*11 none of liii«." Ay, " therefore I'ii 



and a stomach, like other men»-«-yet aln|f 
I cannot. Ah ! 1 remember«-«4Dy villaii^ 
Lopez, singeth the d^-re'inh wiL he ahsU 
execute the serenade. (Jjookitig iu lA^ 
l^ter.) No presumptuous^ selMoatipg 
fools— nor fellows whose souls lie in the 
fineness of their hose.-**' But if tba tr«e 



man 



»i 



{Goe$ off readings Thfi oihen pm€ 
forward laughing and the QtHlim 
falls.] 
But notwithstanding these bl^'iwifh- 
es, the Play is highly creditable to Hk 
Hyde^ and we sincerely hope that we 
shall soon have occasion to notioe m^ 
other dramatic effort fh»m hkn, in 
which he shall consult Ws own taat^ 
and rely more upon his own reaoureM. 
From the total absence of mytlung 
that could degrade the digaitr of pwe 
Comedy, in those portions ^the play 
now under notice, which .«re not be« 
set with the absurdities of Don Piiimo 
or the importunities of his servant^ we 
cannot but conclude, thisit he knows 
well the lines which separate the h^b* 
er from the lower walks of the Drama* 
The author of Alphonzus, and the 
writer — ^be he author or adapter— of 
^' Love's Victory," is a man of taste 
as well as of genius. It would be dif- 
ficult to say which is most requisite in 
dramatic productions ; but of late 
years, (with perhaps a single excep- 
tion,) we have had so little of either> 
that we hail with a pleasure mixed 
with expectation, the appearance of 
one, who can bring botu these rave 
gifts in aid of what we cannot yet deem 
a hopeless task, — that of lifting from 
a mire of follies and extravagandea 
the goodly person of Bkjltji^u Co« 

MEDY. 

n 



i«M.;] 



Mr M'Cnflotlis Irish Em'chfice, 



55 



UtL M^CtJLlDCn^fi tftlSK CTtDBKCE. 



Ti)%B£ fit^ tuttny most unaccounta- 
Vie i\At^ done in tlhese days^ and the 
examining of Mr M^CuHoch by th^ 
l^airliamentary Committee for inqui- 
ring into the state of Ireland was one 
of mem. Mr M'CuUoch has no per- 
gonal knowledge of Ireland ; be was 
not called to state facts respecting it ; 
lie merely appeared as a Political Eco- 
nomist to edify the Committee with 
general doctrines. He is a public lec- 
turer on Ptditical Economy, and the 
vage for this fashionable science being, 
as we suspect, strong upon the 43i^a- 
xious legislators, they resolved to ob- 
tain a lecture at an economical rate, 
under the name of evidence on the 
state of Irelaiid. If <mr -conjecture be 
Just, thev displayed in this far more 
conning tnan generosity; but, however, 
certain money-market disclosures show 
that dnrifl is now the order of the day 
even among gentlemen and nobles. 
It may be very proper for great people 
to be immoderately fond of great bar- 
gains, but we think it is not very pro- 
per for them to use Parliament as tneir 
instrument.. We do not like to see 
Parliamentary Committees using their 
privileges to enable them to ^^ slake 
their glorious thirst for knowledge and 
8<aence," and especially for *' econo- 
mical science" at a cheap rate, to the 
igaSrous loss of poor Mr M'CuUodi, 

We may be mistaken. Perhaps the 
•pkiloeopher was brought forward by 
die absentee landlords to throw dust 
«n the eyes of the nation, when the 
misery and depravity of their tenants 
were coming before it. Perhaps these 
individuals found a storm gathering 
around them, which could only foe 
quelled Mr the bewildering dogmas of 
Political Economy. But whatever was 
the cause, Mr M'CuHoch, who is not 
a man of business — who is neither an 
Irish landlord, nor an Irish farmer, 
nor an Irishman of any kind, who ac- 
tually never saw Ireland, appeared 
before the Committee to dilate on the 
condition of the sister kingdom. 

In looking over Mr M'Culloch's 
evidence, one thing causes us prodi- 
gious amazement ; this is— on some of 
the most important points, he repeats 

Erecisely the same opinions, which we 
ad, on more occasions than one, pub- 
hshed in this Magazine, touching Ire- 
land, before he appeared before the 



Committee. In proof, we may refer 
to what he says respectitig subsetting, 
emigration on a large scale, the asso- 
ciating of the landlords. Sec It cer- 
tainly is exceedingly odd, that any 
Economist, after wliat we have said 
of the tribe, should come after us to 
do anything but contradict us. We 
say not this from vanity, for the same 
opinions, for anything diat we know 
to the contrary^ may have been pub- 
lished ten thousand times before we 
published them. We wrote from oar 
own observations, but it by no peaas 
follows that we wrote what was new. 
We mention the matter, because in 
some quarters we see it asserted that 
government is preparing a bill wiucli 
is to embody Mr M'Culloch's priud- 
I^, touching sub-letting; we see his 
views touching emigration puffed most 
extravagantly as exclusively his own ; 
we see it very broadly insinuated that 
the opinions contained in the only 
sound part of his evidence were ut- 
terly unknown until he condesc^ded 
to lay them before Parliament. Iliis 
will not do ; if we set up no claim to 
originality ourselves, we certainly must 
not permit any such claim to be set 
up by Mr M'CuUoch. 

The sage Economist, however, dif- 
fers very widely from us in many 
things, and, where he does this, we 
natiirally imagine that he blundera 
excessively. His opinions on some 
points are, we are pretty sure, perfect- 
ly original ; but, unhappily for him, 
these are not the opinions which are 
so hugely lauded by people in general. 
When he has ventured to think for 
liimself, he has produced in the public 
a vast portion of laughter, and very 
little belief. Some of his opinions, 
which are peculiarly bis own, or at 
any rate, which are not ours, we shall 
now examine. We are led to do this 
by the greqjt importance of the general 
question, and a wish to protect our 
former papers on Ireland from' misap- 
prehension. We will begin with his 
doctrines touching absenteeism. Some- 
thing may still be added to the refu- 
tation which these have already recei- 
ved from various quarters. 

The following we extract from his 
evidence : 

** Supposing tlie absentee landlords of 
Ireland were to return and reside upon^ 



56 



Mr M'CuOoch's Frith Evidence. 



Cto. 



their ^states, is it your opinion that that 
would be productive of any decided ad- 
vantage to the lower orders of the peo- 
ple ?^No, I am not aware that it would 
be productive of any decidied advantage 
to them, in the way of increasing the ge- 
neral and average rate of wages all over 
the country. 

" Would not the expenditure of their 
incomes amongst them, be productive of 
a great deal of good ? — The income of a 
landlord, when he is an absentee, is real- 
ly as much expended in Ireland, as if he 
were living in it. 

" Will you have the goodness to ex- 
plain that a little further ?^When a land- 
lord becomes an absentee, his rent must 
be remitted to him one way or another; 
it must be remitted to him either in mo- 
ney or in commodities. I suppose it will 
be conceded, that it cannot continue to 
be remitted to him from Ireland in mo- 
ney, there being no money to make the 
remittance, for if the rents of two or three 
estates were remitted in money, it would 
make a scarcity of money and raise its 
value, so that its remittance would ine- 
vitably cease : it is clear, then, that the 
rents of absentees can only be remitted 
in commodities. And this, 1 think, would 
be tlie nature of the operation ; when a 
landlord has an estate in Ireland, and 
goes to live in London or Paris, his agent 
gets his rent, and goes and buys a bill of 
exchange with it; now this bill of ex- 
change is a draft drawn against equiva- 
lent commodities that are to be exported 
from Ireland ; it is nothing more than an 
order to receive an equivalent amount in 
commodities which must be sent from 
Ireland. The merchants who get 10,0001. 
or any other sum, from the agent of an 
absentee landlord, go into the Irish mar- 
ket, and buy exactly the same amount of 
commodities as the landlord would have 
bought, had he been at home ; the only 
difference being, that the landlord would 
eat them and wear them in London or 
Paris, and not in Dublin, or in his house 
in Ireland. 

" Therefore, in proportion to the a- 
mount of rent remitted, will be the cor- 
respondent export of Irish commodities? 
—Precisely; if the remittances to absen- 
tee landlords amount to three millions a- 
year, were the absentee landlords to return 
home to Ireland, the foreign trade of Ire- 
land would be diminished to that amount. 
' " Would not there be a local effect 
created by the residence of Irish gentry 
now absent, that would be very benefi- 
cial ?->If the question be confined to par- 
ticular spots, the expenditure of consi- 
derable sums of money in them may per- 
haps be productive of some advantage to 



their inhabitants ; bttt when a; Vndlord 
goes abroad, the expenditure of his in- 
come, though not probably producChreof 
advantage to that particular paritiiy or 
that particular part of the country where 
his estate lies, will certainly be propor- 
tionally advantageous to some other part 
of the country, inasmuch as the income 
must all be laid out, in the first instance* 
on Irish commodities. 

'* llie employment of the people ie a 
great object ; would not the residence of 
the gentry contribute to the employment 
of the people ? — If you lay out your re- 
venue in labour, you cannot lay it out on 
commodities ; if you get L. 10,000, and 
lay out L.5()00 in labour, you can of 
course lay out L.5000 in commodities. 

'< Would it not be much better for the 
peasantry of Ireland, that a large propor- 
tion of revenue should be laid out in em- 
ploying them, than in the purchase of 
commodities in the city of Dublin, many 
of which, perhaps, may have been of fb- 
reign produce ? — If it is laid out on com- 
modities, it will give employment to the 
persons engaged in the production of 
them. 

" Would not the population of the 
country be benefited by the expenditure 
among them of a certain portion of the 
rent which has been remitted ?— No ; t 
do not see how it could be benefited in 
the least. If you have a certain value 
laid out against fresh commodities in the 
one case, you will have a certain value 
laid out against them in the other. The 
cattle are either exported to England, or 
they stay at home ; if they are ezpmed^ 
the landlord will obtain an equivalent ftnr 
them in English commodities ; if they 
are not, he will receive an equivalent for 
them in Irish commodities; so that in 
both cases the landlord lives on the cftt- 
tlct or on the value of the cattle; ahd 
whether he lives in Ireland or England, 
there is obviously just the very same a- 
mount of commodities for A) people of 
Ireland to subsist upon ; for by the sup- 
position which is made, the raising of 
cattle is the most advantageous mode in 
which the farmers can pay their rents. 

** Would it result from the principles 
laid down by you, that confinuig the 
question to those considerations which 
have been adverted to, it would be the 
same thing, in point of foct, to Ireland, 
whether the whole gentry of the country 
were absentees or not, as far as those 
considerations go ?— I think very nearly 
the same thing. If I may be allowed to 
explain, I will state one point in which I 
think there would be a small difference* 
I think, so far as regards the purchase of 
all sorts of labour, except that of a mere 

IS 



laiQ Mr MKMeVi Zruh Ewitkntk. ^ 



kqttrious to a country; The mlf the etate of eoeiety whieh tiM remltei te 
lajiyft •• it eppeaw to me. that a eouiu a great BBeamre ffoai the abeeacte of Hie 



tqreaB ever Mistaio with reference to higher class of proprietors? I thoMM 

wealth from absentee expenditure, is^ oertainljr think tiiat the ehanees were^ 

that there may be a few menial servants that if tiie huge proprietors hai lived at 

Ihvowa out of employment when bind- home* and not let their estates on ktteH' 

lotda leave the eountiy, unless they take minable leases §at small quit rente, ftat 

their servants along with them : but to the country would have been improved 

whatever extent menials may be oat of by tbetr residence ; but I fowid thie opU 

eaiployment, if they have the effect to nion on political grounds, and not ott 

radiwe the rate of wages, they will in* those about wealth. 

craate the nte of profitt In a country, ^ Have not the eireumsCanceeib whiek 

however, where absenteeism has been so you have alluded, as narking the ehAfaex 

Umg prevalent as in Ireland, I shouUi say ter of society, which Induces you to thfaik 

that this eircumstanoe cannot have any that the residence of an Irish gentleraat 

pereqptible eifieet. amongst his tenantry kr not likely to be 

'* "When an agent wishes to remit, sup- attended by any good moral effect, in a 

poge L. 1000 of J Irish rent to tf landlord great degree resulted from the state of 

not lesident in the country, and buys a society which has been formed in conse^ 

Ml of exchange in Dublin, has not that quence of tbe absence of the real pro- 

IhII iof exchange been actually sold, and prietors of tbe soil 7 It may have Sn some 

4oef It not actually represent at the time small degree residted fcom that; but the 

s pievtous exportation of Irish produce ? actual atete of society in Irehmd has, I 

Itiaay not represent a previous eiqportap think resulted much «u>re from other 

tioK of Iriah produce ; but it will either causes. 

lepreseirt; a previous or a subsequent ea^ '* What are tiiose other causes? I 

^mrtof KML should think it had resulted more from 

^ Then in every insttnce, in srhich a political causes than anything else. The 

' aiiaes for a bill of exchange to great proprietors of the 'soil of Irelaii4 



nmit lents, it ii» in point of fiust, a dOi* have been Protestants, and have beee 

mamd for expertatioo of Irish produce, embued with all the pregu^ees of tiie 

ifrat would not etbenvise have existed ? Ptotestant sect against the great rai^rity 

Ujiionbtediy. of the people who live upon theur estatei* 

. ^ A vahte bewg oemitted eqidvalent and in feet against the great majority of 

to the rent, will not that value find ite the people of the country; and havii^ 

way tiuoui^ tlie Various operations of those prqudioes, I think Ireland hae not, 

4wiiasinnipg production by the employ- upon the whole, loet a great deal by their 



of tbe poor, to the extent that the poa-resideNce* 

JamUond himself could employ them if he ** What cUss of propiietors do yon be- 

Aomained at hone ? I think so. lieve has fa genend ueurped or occupied 

f< Will you have the kindness to state the places of those who would bave been 

what yoof view of absenteeism is^ as a the natural chiefe of society? I think 

IPMVt moral and political question, asap- Lord Ckre etates m his speech en Umb 

^caUe to Iielaad ? From all the infioa- Union, (I fmrget the precise words,) that 

.flutaoA I have been able to ebtein fnaa a verf large proportion of Iretend, about 

fleading hooks on the state of Ireland, five-eiaDths of the country, had beoi coo- 

.j«d fioeveraing with each Irish gentle- ilscatcd in the course of the century end- 

men as I have met witi^ I afaoukl think ing with the reign of William the Thh^, 

itbat is a moral point of view, Irelanddid and, of course, if that confiscation had 

hot lose very much by the want ef the not taken places the great bufk of the 

ebientee landlords. property woukl have been in the haniB 

<< Will you 6tate what has led you to ef thedescendante of those whose estaira 

Iprm.thatoinnion? Tbe statements that were confiscated. Had the majority ef 

I have seen in Mr Wakefield's weric, and the landlords been Catholics, I should 

in other wodcs on Irehmd ; and the va- think they would have treated their teiw 

ftens conversations I have bad. ants and fhe hnver people better than 

^ Tbe Committee are now speaking, Protestant landlords could be supposed 

.aot of tbe etate of Irdand as it is, but to do. 

wlMt it would be if the persons of pro- ^ In looking to flie causes of tfie pro- 

•IMBty had in that country been resident sperity ef countries, in what degree nae, 

for generations, as in aaore fmrtunate what is generally called the landed inte- 

aountrifs has been the case ; have not rest, contributed to it ? It would i>e very 

jfime eitcometances which lead yon to ditteidt to answer that questkmwfth pre- 



Vol. XIX. H 



58 



Jir M'CuUock'i IrUk Ewtdenee. 



Wrt- 



.eMon ; I think, hoiMTer,<Chat almost «U 
i;reat improvements in evciy countiT» 
have originated among merchants and 
manu&etorers. 

** In respeet to capital, and the influ- 
ence of capital in extending industry and 
employing the people, and making that 
profit which leads to the general wealth 
of a country, what would you say has 
been the usual process by which countries 
have changed from a state of poverty to 
a state of wealth and civilization? I 
should say that the history of Europe 
proves that the progress of countries in 
jwealth and civilization, has been more 
promoted by the accumulation of capital 
made by manufacturers and merchants, 
and by their skill and enterprize, than by 
the same qualities on the part of the 
landlords. 

'< Adverting to what you stated some 
time ago, supposing that capital was to 
be drawn from England and advantage- 
ously employed in Ireland in manuliic- 
tures, would it not result from the an- 
swer you have just given, that it would 
contribute .greatly to the improvement of 
Ireland? If it can be advantageously 
.employed in Ireland, it will go there 
without any legislative measures being 
necessary to force it ; and if not, it had 
better remain out of it 

'* Is not absenteeism the cause of the 
middlemen system ? I do not think it is 
absenteeism that is the cause of it ; I 
think it originated in the difficulty of 
.finding tenants possessed of capital suffi- 
cient for the working of large tracts of 
lands, and the disinclination which every 
gentleman must have, to go and super- 
vise the proceedings of a parcel of small 
•occupiers. I have no idea you would 
diminish the number of middlemen ma- 
terially, though you had no absentees. 

«' Would it be possible for an absentee 
to deal, directly or individuaUy, with his 
tenantiy, if he had not the means afforded 
iiim of letting large tracts to one person, 
that was responsible to him? He might 
deal with them through the intervention 
of an' agent If he does not choose to 
employ a middle^ian, he can employ an 
agent; and it is only because he finds 
that middlemen are more advantageous 
than agents, that he resorts to them in 
preference. 

** Are there complaints in Scotland 
about absentee landlords ? No ; I never 
heard of any such complaints. 

** Are there many absentee landlords 
firom Scotland ? A great many.. 

'* Do those farms, where there are 
absentees, bring a lower or a higher rent, 
thaa where the landlords are resident ? 



I beHeve that thnmgliottt floottavi^.a 

fiinn belonging to an absentee Imdloiii^ 
of the same goodness as one belonging 

to a resident hmdlord, would let te n^ 
ther a higher rent ' 

'< What reason is there for its 
a higher rent than if the landlord 
resident ? No tenant likes to live under 
that system • of surveillance and ovei^ 
looking which is generally exercised^ bjr:a 
landlord. When a landlord goes abroii4» 
or lives in England, his affiiirs are maiui- 
ged by bis factor or agent, who is gene* 
rally a very intelligent person, and mudh 
more conversant with country affurs than 
the landlords are; so that the tenanti 
prefer dealing with him to dealing intk 
the landlord. 

** That depends on the character of the 
factor, and would not apply to a coontrr 
where the tenant preferred dealing witk 
the landlord? If the landlord were to 
employ a very bad man as his factor, of 
course the tenant would prefer a resident 
landlord to deal with, if he were* a better 
man ; but in Scotland I believe I am war- 
ranted in sayiiig, that, generally speaking 
they uniformly prefer absentee landlorda. 

*( Do you concieive Engliuid sustttine 
any injury from the number of absenteee 
in France? No, I do not; England 
would have them to feed and clothe were 
they in England ; and whether she feeds 
or clothes them in England or France, is 
a matter of perfect indiffierenee to Bog- 
land. 

*' Do you think, that if seven-eighthe 
of the landed proprietors of England 
were to go abroad, leaving their estates 
in the hands of agents to manage them, 
the general concerns of this country 
would go on as well as they do now ? I 
think, if there were courts established in 
England like the sheriff courts of Soot- 
land, and if the agents, or persons se- 
lected to manage the estates of absentees, 
were men of as good character, and as 
intelligent as those who manage the es- 
tates of Scotch absentees, England would 
rather gain by the absence of the great 
proportion of the landed proprietors. 

** Have you turned your attentioA to 
the public expenditure of Ireland, and can 
you state whether the revenue collected 
in Ireland is sufficient to defray the ez- * 
pense of governing that country? I un- 
derstand the revenue collected in Ireland 
is nearly three millions short of defraying 
the expense of governing that country, ' 
and paying the interest on that portion 
of the national debt of the empire which 
properly belongs to Ireland." 

Our readers will have obsecvcd^ in 
the first place^ that in Mr M'CiillodilB 



1^0 ^r M'Culhch't Irish Svidemx. 69 

i^iiiilon the abientee kndlordi would waggonen have to be employed in 

not, by dwellii^ in Ireland, raise wa- carrying the goods to different parts; 

get in it, or in other words, would not shopmen, apprentices, porters, &c 

employ more labour in it than they have to be employed in distributing 

employ at present; and that these them. If the landlord did not live in 

landlords, in reality, spend their rents Ireland, none of the foreign commo* 

as much in Ireland when they are dities consumed by him would enter 

absentees, as they would do if they it, and the mass of labour which these 

should dwell in it constantly. The put in motion would be unemployed 

Philosopher makes no distinction be- in that country, 

tween a landlord's living in England, In addition, the landlord pays an« 

and his living in France, or China. nually,considerablesums to the coach* 

Whetlier he dwellin London, or Paris, maker, harness-maker, bricklayer, 

or Rome, or Pekin, or Timbuctoo, it is carpenter, blacksmith, tailor, shoe« 

precisely the same to Ireland as dwell- maker, painter, upholsterer, &c. &c. 

ing on his Irish estate, in regard to the greater part of which sums, is in 

the expenditure of his income. Had reality paid for labour. Were he to 

this opinion been delivered by some live out of Ireland, this labour would 

venerable female whose faculties had be in that country without emjdoy-i 

been impaired by a warfare of eighty ment. 

years with the ills of life, it would l:This is not alL If the landlord by 
doubtlessly have excited only peals of his consumption of commodities give 
laughter : but it was delivered by an regular employment to one hundred 
Economist — by a Philosopher — and people in Ireland, who would other« 
therefore we are pretty sure that it wise be idle; these employ various 
was listened to with wonderful so- people to prepare commodities for 
lemnity, and believed to be vastly pro- them who would otherwise be idle ; 
found and unerring. the latter in their turn employ others 
The sagacious Economist's reason for who would otherwise be idle ; and the 
his opinion is in substance, that the money thus continually circulates, 
landlord's rent is in reality paid in employing additional labour every- 
Irish produce, and that it makes no where. If the landlord should remove 
difference to Ireland whether this pro- from Ireland, not only would the la* 
duce be consumed in it, or out of it. hour which his consumption of com- 
The landlord, for example, receives modities employs be left idle, but a 
his rent in oxen ; he exchanges these vast portion of other labour would be 
for such commodities as he needs, and left idle likewise. 
it makes no difference whether he We will illustrate this farther by 
makes the exchange in Ireland, or in looking at rents in the gross. Those 
any other part of the universe. paid to absentee landlords are repre- 
■ Our readers are aware that the rent, sented to be enormous in amount, but 
whether the landlord dwells in Ire- suppose they reach three millions. If 
land or out of it, is paid by the te- this sum were expended in Ireland, it 
nants in money : these sell tneir oxen would employ a vast nunober of gro- 
exactly the same in both cases to pay cers, drapers, mercers, tailors, shoe-' 
it. If the landlord dwell in Ireland, makers, &c. &c., who could not now 
what does he do with the money ? find business in that country. These 
He expends it in commodities, says the tradesmen would employ a vast num- 
philosopher. In what commodities ? her of servants of different kinds, who 
In coals — wine — malt liquor — cottons could not at present be employed in 
— ^woollens — silks — sugar — tea — cof- Ireland. These masters and servants 
foe, &c. &c. If the commodities would of themselves employ an im^ 
which he consumes be produced in mense mass of labour, which, without 
Ireland, they must employ a large them, could not be employed, 
quantity of labour in their produc- We leave domestics and labourers, 
tion: if they be all imported, they regularlyhiredby the landlord, out of 
must employ a large quantity in, and the question, in order to meet the Phi- 
after their importation, putting pro- losopher on his own ground, 
duction out of sight. Sailors have to Now, how does Mr M'Culloch get 
be employed in fetching them ; la- over this point ? He says, *' If you 
bourers have to be employed in un- lay out your revenue in labcnic, .you 
loading the vessels ; bargemen and cannot lay it out iu commodities ; if 



Mr JfCuihck's JriA JMiUke. 



&^ 



gel L.10,000, and ky out L.6000 
Jilboiir/yofB can, <if €9iirke^ lay out 
MQO on Gommaditiefl I You, tiiere* 
iate, ean only employ labour by hi* 
ring Itbourera ; if you buy oommodi« 
tkti you employ BO labour. Ofeouhie, 
eonraiodities employ no labour; the 
diff^ent kinds of tradesmen neither 
irork themselves^ nor keep any work- 
men. Oh^ wonderful EoonomistI what 
a disoorery ! After saying what we 
haye quoted, Mr M'Culloch states, 
V If the money be laid out on commo- 
ditiss, it will give employment to the 
persons engag^ in the production of 
them." These counter assertions from 
the same lips affect each other very 
awkwardly. Looking at so much of 
the first as the last does not annihilate, 
it seems that commodities employ no 
labour in their way from the producer 
to the consumer I 

The Philosopher asserts that the 
merchants who get L. 10,000, or any 
other sum, from the agent of an alv* 
aentee landlord in exchange for a bill 
to be remitted to this landlord, " go 
into the Iriih market, and buy exact- 
ly the same amount of commodities 
9a the landlord would have bought, 
had he been at home; the only di&r* 
cnce being, that the landlord would 
oat them and wear them in London 
or Paris, and not in Dublin, or in his 
house in Ireland." He asserts further, 
that, *' if the remittances to absentee 
hmdlords amount to three millions a* 
year, were the absentee landlords to 
return home to Ireland, the foreign 
trade of Ireland would be diminished 
to ihat amount." He, moreover, as* 
Mrts, that " in every instance in which 
a demand arises for a bill of exchange 
to remit rents, it is, in point of fact, a 
demand for exportation of Irish pro- 
duce whidi would not otherwise have 
existed." What an astounding philo« 
soj^her is Mr M'Culloch ! 

We will concede, that the rents of 
the absentees are in reality remitted in 
Irish produce. Now the same amount 
of rent must be ^aid, and therefore the 
tenants miist raise the same quanti^ 
of produce, whether the landlordls 
live in Ireland, or out of it. The te- 
nants sell their produce, in both cases, 
to precisely the same people. Here 
the difference b^ns. 

If the landlord dwell in Ireland, the 
tenants sell the same quantity of pro« 
duce to the merdiants that Uiey would 



iell if he mmM aUwiiHi nevOiai 
pay to him tne mamji What do At 
merdiantsdo with tins poduee^ Ite 
esUblish the dotrine at the levned 
Philosopher, they ong^tt to sell i%i m 
other Irish produee received in cs« 
change for it, to the landlord, for the 
money received of his tenants. ThoTj 
however, do no such thing. Thekiia<» 
lord can only oonsmne a verr mU 
temptible portion of this «nd other 
Irish produce. He practically goes to 
the merchants, and gives them nenty 
the whole of ihe money In excfaatigg^ 
not for Irish ]>roduce, bat for wm, 
ooals, timber, silver, iron, tea, sunr^ 
and other articles, the produce of other 
nations. For the purchase of theit 
articles, the merchanta export the 
Irish produce. Nearly the whdte ef 
this produce is exported when the 
landlord is resident, as well as when 
he is an absentee. 

When the landlord is an absentee, 
the tenanta sdl their produce to the 
merchants, and pay the money to the 
agent ; the latter tskes the money to 
the merchants, to buy of them, not 
the produce of other countries, hot a 
bill— or, in other words, to employ 
them to remit the money to the lan^ 
lord. They export the Irish produee 
that it may be sold abroad, end tbe 
value paid to the absentee landlord. 
In both cases the Irish produce is es- 
ported ; in the one, it is merely aent 
abroad, that it may return to Ireland 
in another 6hape,-^n the other, it k 
sent abroad that it may retnm^no 
more. In the one, it goes abroad only 
for a moment, as Iruh trading €sapi-i 
tal — ^in the other, it goes fyr ever as a 
dead loss to Irdand. 

The Irish absentee landlords woald 
be so far firom diminishing tilie aggre^ 
gate exports of Ireland by retnniing 
to it, that they would increase then* 
There would be not only their own 
consumption of foreign produce, whuA 
would only be procured by the &U 
portation of Irisn produce, but there 
would be that of the vast number ef 
additional tradesmen, medianics, tx* 
tixans, and labourers, whom they 
would bring into employment. The 
expenditure of the rents, by giving 
being to these new consumers, by coo* 
tinually sending money from hand to 
hand to promote consumption, and by 
raising wages and profits, ¥ronld in-* 
crease the imports of Irdiaid beyond 



ateAtDMUil ; Mkmiaimii fhovid io^ 
CvesK me iiuporti beyond its amount^ 
it would increase the exports. It might 
diminish the exports of eorn and cat* 
tk;, but it would add to that of other 
articles of Irish produce. 

The absentee landlords^ theref<»rd, 
instead of increasing the exports of 
Jrdand, only diminish its imports. 
Were they to return, the exports would 
be at least the same, while they would 
add, in one way smd another, three 
millions to the imports, if their rents 
amount to this sum. Were additional 
fioreign produce of this value import- 
ed into Ireland, every one must be 
convinced that, in its working up 
and diiBtribution, it would employ a 
prodigious quantity of additional la- 
bour. 

Of course the doctrine, that the 
merchants, on receiving the mon^ 
firom the agent, '^ go into the Irish 
market, and buy exactly the same 
amount of commodities as the land- 
lord woidd have bought had he been 
at home, the only difference being, 
that the landlord would eat and wear 
them abroad, and not at home," is 
preposterous. The question is. Does 
absenteeism diminish the demand for 
labour ? And, therefore, to establish 
the doctrine, the merchants should 
buy, not oidv the same amount of 
commodities, but the very same com- 
modities that the landlord would have 
bought had he been at home. They 
should buy and export the Irish pro- 
duce, import foreign mroduce in ex- 
change for it, sell me latter, and pur- 
chase as many suits of clothes, pairs 
of shoes, dozens of wine, pounds of 
candles, tea, sugar, &c &c. as the 
landlord consumes — they should do 
all this before receiving the money of 
the agent — ^for the bill sold to this 
agent they should export the last- 
named commodities, and not Irish 
produce, — or there u manifestly a 
''difference," which is fatal to the 
doctrine of the PhiloBopher. The mer- 
chants do nothing of the kind ; they 
merely buy in the Irish market such 
commodities as they would buy if the 
landlord should dwell at home, or 
should not exist. They sdl to the 
agent a bill ; and if they did not do 
this, they would sell to the landlord, 
or other people, foreign produce of the 
same value. The diflerenoe is this— 
if the landlord dwell abroad, he mere- 
ly, in the Irish market, exdumges one 



Mr ii^^JikKk'ilrkklS^iimce. 



•I 



kind ^ mene^ for 'wiotbtr* w|)m)i 
puts no labour in motion; if nedwc^ 
at home, he exchanges his money fpr 
foreign produce, which puts a tasi 
quantity of labour in motion. 

The point is so important, that we 
will, at the hazard of being tediovis, 
bestow on it some farther illustration. 

If British landlords, possessing 
twenty millions of income, were to 
leave this country, and dwell perma-* 
nently in France, how would thi^ope- 
rate ? According to Mr M'Culloch, 
it would add a clear twenty millions 
to our exports. If he be right, it 
must inevitably be true, diat this 
would make a clear addition of twenty 
millions to the imports of France. 
France would receive this sum as a 
free gift, without returning any equi- 
valent-Hshe would receive it chiefly in 
raw produce— she would receive it on- 
ly in such things as she would need-?-* 
and she would receive an increase of 
consumption commensurate with it at 
the same moment. Now, is it not per-i 
fectly dear, that this addition of twen« 
ty millions to the imports of France 
— ^that this addition of twenty mil- 
lions to her annual profits — would en<* 
able her to employ an enormous ad- 
ditiooal quantity of labour ? And if 
it be^ is it not equally clear, that ihe 
gain of France would be the loss of 
England ? The Economists are aware 
of the dilemma in which they have 
placed themselves. They manfully as- 
sert, that as the one country would 
not lose, the other would not gain : 
they might just as truly assert, that 
to take ten thousand pounds from the 
income of one man, and add it to that 
of another, would not make the one 
poorer, or the other richer. 

To support these doctrines, the Eoo^ 
nomlsts maintain, that although the 
removal of the landlords would throw 
an immense mass of capital and labour 
—an immense number of tradesmen, 
mechanics, artizans, and labourers-^ 
out of employment for the moment, 
these would ble permanently employed 
by other trades, which would be pro- 
portionably increased by the absentee.! 
ssm of the landlords. We cannot go 
along with these people until we have 
something better from them than the 
flimsy assertions and assumptions to 
which they cautiously confine them<9 
selves. Let us bottom this matter* 
If the landlords go abroad the tenants 
raiae the same produce, sell it to the 



t% 



Mr M'CuUoeh's Irish Evidence. 



same people^ and pay the rents in nio« 
Key to agents. The agents buy bills 
upon France with the money^ and 
send these to the landlords. Now> 
what are the commodities sent to 
France which these bills represent ? 
They consist almost wholly of raw 
produce. 

If^ in consequence of the absentee- 
ism of the landlords^ France buy a 
great additional quantity of East In- 
dia silk of us, shall we then import an 
additional quantity of this silk ? By 
no mean*^. She will merely buy that 
silk which our manufacturers would 
otherwise buy. She will add nothing 
to our imports of silk. If she buy a 
great quantity of cotton of us, the 
case will be the same : she will buy 
what our manufacturers would other- 
wise buy, but she will not increase our 
imports of cotton. If she buy of us 
much wool and iron, the case will still 
be the same: we shall not produce 
more wool and iron — we shall only sell 
these to her instead of our own manu- 
facturers. The same quantity of these 
articles might be brought into the 
country by the produce of the estates 
as before; but the demand for the 
twenty millions worth of manufac- 
tured articles would be transferred 
from this country to France. The 
landlords would emplo]^ the French 
traders, mechanics, &c. instead of the 
English ones; and the raw articles 
would have to be sent to France, to be 
there manufactured, instead of this 
country. The mighty mass of capi- 
tal and labour — the mighty host of 
traders, mechanics, artizans, and la- 
bourers — ^which the expenditure of 
the twenty millions now employs be- 
tween the importer or English pro- 
ducer and the consumer, would be de- 
prived of employment, while not a 
single trade would receive any addi- 
tional capacity to employ them, save 
the carrying trade to France, of which 
France would engross a large portion. 
So far as regards employment being 
given by the landlords in other trades, 
nearly the whole of this capital and 
labour would remain idle for ever. 

To render this still plainer, we will 
assume that a nobleman in this coun- 
try expends annually ten thousand 
pounds in silk goods alone ; and that 
those who supply him with, and make 
up these goods, serve him only. He 
buys the goods of his mercer, and this 
employs the mercer, his capital, shop-* 



men^ porter^ Ike, The mercer baye 
the goods of the manufacturer, and 
this employs the capital of the mmuk 
facturer and throwster, with Uie wes« 
vers, dyers, &c. The nobleman's fa* 
mily employ dressmakers to make up 
the goods. By employing these people, 
he enables them to consume many 
silks. Now, if he remove to France, 
and there consume the same quantity 
of silks, what is the consequence, muaim 
ming that in both places the raw ar« 
tide is bought of the English import- 
er ? He deprives the mercer, his capi- 
tal and shopmen, the manufacturer 
and throwster, with their capital and 
workmen, and the dressmakers, who]* 
ly of employment, and of the means of 
consuming silks. His rent is raised as 
before ; but instead of being expended 
in employing these people and thdr 
capital, it is taken in reality to the im- 
porter for the purchase of that raw rilk 
to send to France which had previously 
yielded such employments. The trade 
of the importer remains the same, but 
the employment of the others is wholhr 
lost, so far as regards the nobleman, if 
we except the trifling share that mav 
be obtained by carrying the raw silk 
across the water. 

This is looking at the matter in the 
most favourable point of view, and in 
a much more favourable one than wo 
ought. So much capital and labour 
being rendered idle, would have the 
most mighty effect in depressing pro- 
fits and wages. Consumption, general 
imports, and exports to all i»rts save 
France, would be greatly diminished^ 
France, from receiving an additioiial 
twenty millions' worth of raw produce 
to manufacture, retail, and work up, 
would increase her trade greatly be* 
yond the same amount. 

We vdll assume that there are in 
this country three great and distinct 
classes of producers. The first is com* 
posed of the agriculturists, which in* 
eludes the landholders. The landlord 
is as much a producer of com as his 
tenant ; the two are in reality copart* 
ners ; the one finds the greater part of 
the capital, i, e. the land and build* 
ings ; the other finds the remainder of 
the capital, i. e, the stock. The second 
class consists of the importers or pro* 
ducers of raw produce not i^cultural, 
and the third of the manufacturers. 
Under the term manufacturers, we 
here include all who work up and re* 
tail the raw produce of all dcscriptioQs- 



i«wa 



MrM*OdlocK» Irish Evidence. 



<S 



}^aw9 were our agriculturists to buy 
all their manufkctures of France^ this 
vo^ throw out of employment all 
the manufacturing capital and labour 
of this country which are now. employ- 
ed in supplying them. If they could 
not send their own produce to France 
in payment, they would exchange it 
for the produce of the second class ; 
this class would not import or produce 
more from this-— it would merely send 
that produce to France which it now 
suppUes to the manufacturers. This 
capital and labour would be thrown 
permanently out of employment; for, 
from the .effect upon profits and 
wages, our carrying trade would be 
quite as much diminished with other 
parts, as it would be increased with 
Jlrance. Again, if the second and 
third classes were to buy the whole of 
their agricultural produce of France, 
this would throw the whole of our 
.agricultural capital and labour out of 
employment. It would not increase 
the trade of these classes, though 
france should take manufactures in 
exchange ; for they would merely send 
'the goods to France which they now 
sell to our own agriculturists. They 
would, in truth, sell considerably less, 
because they would have to support 
gratuitously the idle population. No- 
thing we think in mathematical de- 
monstration could be clearer than this 
— tf we import French manufactures 
. and corns when our own manufacturers 
and agriculturists can abundantly sup- 
ply us with bothy we must employ. French 
capital and labour, render idle an equal 
amount at least of British capital and 
labour, and greatly diminish the profits 
of the capital and labour of the whole 
, country. If British landholders go to 
expend twenty millions annually in 
. France, this will only differ from our 
agriculturists as a body buying an- 
nually of France twenty millions' worth 
of French manufactured goods, instead 
of buying to the same amount of our 
own manufacturers, by its being in- 
finitely more injurious to this country. 
If the opinions of the sage Economist 
be true, it must inevitably be true 
likewise, 

1. That rents employ no labour after 
they are paid to the landlord. The 
landlord who expends fifty or sixty 
thousand per annum, gives no employ- 
ment to labour by sudi expenditure. 

2. That the rent of a landlord is in 
reality expended before it is put into 



his hands, and that, although he m^y 
receive it in solid sovereigns, he cannot 
expend it again so as to employ labour. 

3. That a nation can have no ex- 
ports, unless its landlords, or others 
whom it supplies with income, dwell 
abroad. 

4. That the imports of a nation em« 
ploy no labour. 

5. That the cultivators of land 
would have no surplus produce to sell^ 
if they had no rents to pay. 

6. That a nation cannot have any 
surplus agricultural produce, if its 
landlords be not absentees. 

7. That were the absentee landlords 
to return home, each one — Heaven 
moderate his appetite I— would devour 
all the com, h(^,'and oxen, that his 
tenants could dispose of. 

8. That if you* take your business 
from your English tailor, and give it 
to a French one, it neither injures the 
one, nor benefits the other. By buy- 
ing all your goods of the Englishman, 
you do not employ him ; by buying 
the whole of the Frenchman, you 
would not employ him. Capital and 
labour cannot be deprived of employ- 
ment, and they can never be super- 
abundant. 

9. That all trades are of equal value 
to a nation ; it makes no difference to 
a nation whether it has merely a xmpu- 
lation just sufficient to cultivate its 
soil, or twice the number in addition 
engaged in manufactures and com- 
merce. A nation can lose manufacture 
after manufacture, and this will do it 
no injury ; in proportion as its manu- 
factures may decrease, its commerce 
and agriculture will increase. If it 
lose the whole of its manufactures, and 
nearly the whole of its commerce, it 
will be able to employ its capital and 
population just the same in agricul- 
ture, although its land shall be pre- 
viously fully occupied. If the wnole 
of our manufacturers were thrown out 
of employment, they could immediate- 
ly be employed in our agriculture, and 
tne nation would not lose by it. A 
nation is as rich, populous, and power- 
ful, when it has only its agriculture, 
as it is when it has in addition an im- 
mense portion of commerce and manu- 
factures. 

10. If all the people of ir dependent 
fortune who now dwell in London, 
w«re to repiove to Liverpool, and were 
to be restricted from procuring a single 
manufactured article from London, 



64 



Mr M*€uttoch^$ Trish EMtnet. 



QC**- 



lititiMNild neldier It^iupe London, not 
bMWit Liverpool. 

11. If land in this ooantry, whieh 
pty 8 twenty millions of annual rent, 
shoold belong to the King of France 
instead of its present proprietors ; and 
if his Grallic Majesty snoiud constantly 
teoeive the rent in raw produce, and 
never send a diilling of it back to be 
eitpended on the land, the case would 
he precisely the same to the nation at 
large, as it is at present, when the land 
b^ngs to inhabitants of this country, 
"who expend the rent in British mer- 
chandize and manufactures. 

IS. If fifty millions were annnally 
taken from the profits of this country, 
and added to those of France as a free 
-gift, it would neither injure the one 
country, nor benefit the other ; it 
would neither make the one poorer, 
Bor the other richer. 

We could go farther, but we will 
pause at the round dozen. Grentle 
reader, what an amazing science is 
Politiiad Economy ! 

The wretched dogmas that in real- 
ity lead to these conclusions, are not 
^ut forth as matters of opinion— as 
things that may possibly be arone- 
oos. Oh, no ! they are promulgated 
as though their truth were matter of 
decisive demonstration ; all who dis- 
aent from them are stigmatized as ig- 
norant, prcgudiced bigots, and coverM 
with ridiciue. The Economists have 
tttuck themselves upon their bubble, 
and, in consequence, they imagine that 
they have sofu^ far above the world, 
and the infirmities of human nature, 
and they seem to think that they have 
invested themselves with t3ie attributes 
of Heaven. The foul name6;and grins 
of such egotists, will not, we conceive, 
disturb any man's peace, whatever 
cflfect they nave on his risibility. 

It is not solely on account of Mr 
MK^iloch that we have bestowed so 
much attention on this doctrine. The 
fkct is — and we most earnestly beg 
our readers to keep it in mind — that 
upon this doctrine stands what is call- 
etl our new and liberal system of Free 



Trade. This sysian dlMhiMlf 
as its basis, that to bay uMUuihistaica 
and com of France, and other statea 
which have adopted the pfoliiliitiBry 
system ;^nst us, will bcttefit, ind 
not injure, our own mtnufkcturea and 
agriculturists, although these may be 
able to supply us almndandy. Thia 
is exactly the doctrine of the Fhfloso- 
pher. It is exactly the same as at^ 
serting, that if our i^eulturists buy 
nearly the whole of their man uftclur c B 
of France with raw produce, it wfll 
benefit and not ininre our o#n malm* 
facturers ; that if our manufiMtoxm 
buy nearly the whole of their com of 
France, it will benefit, and not injure 
our agriculturists ; that if oar land* 
holders go to dwell constandy in 
France, tneir expenditure of thdr in- 
comes in that country, wUl be piMise- 
ly the same thhig to England as their 
expenditure of them at home Would be. 
yfe repeat, that in reafity there ia not 
the least ^Ufibrence between the doo^- 
trine of Mr M'Cullodi, and "die prmd- 
pies on whidi this new system avoWed- 
ly rests. If the doctrine be true, -die 
system stands upon a rock; If the 
doctrine be false, the system is built 
upon sand, it will fall, and the ftQ 
will be terriUe. We hope we ba^e 
said sufficient to convince our readefa 
that the doctrine is perfectly untCMH 
hie. We are ourselves as imoioagli- 
ly convinced that it is wholly fiune, 
and that the system which has been 
raised upon it is one of etror and de- 
struction, as we are that light is nut 
darkness — ^that flame is not ice— that 
vapour is not adamant. Tiine will 
produce that conviction in the natien 
which we cannot Words may be 
disregarded, but ruin and misery will 
obtain attention and credence. * 

We must now say something on a 
difference touching absentee expen- 
diture, the existence of whieh Mr 
M'Culloch practically d^ies altoge- 
ther. If the Irish absentee landlotd 
dwell in France, he injures Ireland to 
benefit France; and the benefits whidh 
he confers on the latter do net q^ 



* Many of the public prints, which uniformly puff the <' new and libeml qfstem 
of free trade" in the most fulsome manner, have pronounced Mr MlCuUoch's doe- 
trine to be gross and glaring fidsehood. Some of them have abused it in the most 
outrageous way possible. There is something in this exquisitely ludicrous Mr 
M*Culloch asserts that the man in die moon never wears a nightcap— It is a lie !•— 
Mr Huskisson asserts the same in somewhat different words— It if an obvioos truth. 
BravO; most sagacious Editors ! 

3 



1696.;] 



Mr M'CuUoch's Irish Evidence. 



66 



nte to benefit the fonnier. If he 
dweU in£i]gland, what Ireland loses in 
respect of his expenditure is gained by 
England. The benefits of his expen- 
diture are still kept in the empire. Ire- 
land has a free trade to En^and^ and 
his expenditure in the jatter increases 
this trade. If there were a perfectly 
free circulation of labour throughout 
Britain. and Ireland^ if Ireland were 
as far advanced in manufactures and 
commerce as Britain, and if it could 
supply its full proportion of the va- 
rious articles sold in the English mar- 
ket — then the residence of the Irish 
landlord in London, with regard to 
expenditure, would only operate to 
Ireland, as the residence of tne York- 
shire landlord, in London, operates to 
Yorkshire. The great mass of our 
landlords are, to a very great extent 
in respect of expenditure, absentees 
from their estates. They expend the 
greater part of their incomes in Lon- 
don, or other large places. 

But whatever Ireland may lose from 
the landlord's expending his income 
in England, it forms but a very con- 
temptible part of the whole loss which 
flows from his absenteesim. Excessive 
rents and subdivision form, so far as 
the landlord is concerned, the great 
curse of Ireland, and these do not ne- 
cessarily flow from his expending his 
rents in London. The whole of our 
Englisli landlords might dwell con- 
stantly on their estates, and still, if 
they should exact the utmost farthing 
of rent possible from their tenants, 
our peasantry would be .as poor and 
miserable as the Irish peasantry, and 
our land would be as much subdivided 
as that of Ireland. Exorbitant rents, 
if they be general, must produce sub- 
division ; and both, whether landlords 
be residents or absentees, must plunge 
the cultivators into want and misery. 

If the Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, or 
Westmoreland landlord dwell almost 
constantly, and spend the whole of his 
income in London, his tenants are still 
in. respectable and comfortable cir- 
cumstances. They pay moderate rents 
—such rents as leave them fair profits 
upon their capital. The landlord 
seizes not the lion's share of the pro- 
duce of the land — ^he gives them meir 
due portion. In the distressed parts 
of Ireland everything is taken from 
the tenants but the most bar»>fub- 
sistence. The English farmer can 
save money— he can reserve his farm 

Vol. XIX. 



for xme wm, and put the otheit into 
respectable trades. Tlibe Iridi faimer 
cannot save— ^e cannot jpat his sons 
into trades ; when be dks his property 
must be divided, and, so far aa reguds 
his children, his land must be divided 
likewise. The English fanners and 
their labourers, in reality, retain and 
expend upon the estate a large portion 
of that rent, which in Ireland is ex- 
torted from the Irish ones, and aent 
out of the country. 

While it is manifest that exorbitant 
rents, and their ofl&^ng,' subdivi- 
sion, are, so far as concerns the land- 
lords, the great evils of Ireland, it is, 
in our judgment, equally manifest 
that these evils flow from absenteeism. 
If a nobleman or gentleman of large 
fortune— who prides himself upon his 
rank and ancestry — who is rond of 
show and splendour — who has never 
known the want of money — who has 
his fortune in money already made — 
who has been taught to look upon 
the parsimonious ideas of traders with 
scorn — and who has been constantly 
habituated to generosity and profu- 
sion — if such an individual personally 
direct the management of his estate, 
it is not possible, in the nature of 
things, that he should be a bad land- 
lord. Pride, ])omp — every feeling of 
his nature, will compel him to let rea- 
sonably cheap farms, and to let his 
farms, and even his cottages, to none 
but men of good character and con- 
duct. His larger tenants will be en- 
abled to save, and to occupy more 
land ; he will keep himself constantly 
enabled to let his land in farms. of 
any size to good tenants. On the 
other hand, if a low-bred, merc^iary 
man of small property, have the sole- 
management of an estate as a per cent- 
age-agent, or middleman ; if he take 
this management for the sake of pe- 
cuniary profit; and if his profit be 
regulated by the amount of rent which 
he can extort from the cultivators, it 
is not possible, in the nature of things, 
that he can be a good landlord. Every 
thing will conspire to compel hini to 
sponge from the occupit-rs the utmost 
farthing of rent, without regard to 
anything else. While the owner only 
lets the land to enjoy a fortune— to 
obtain the interest of capital, this roan 
lets it to make a fortune — to accumu- 
late a capital. He will dissipate the 
capital of the larger occupiers, compel 
them, if they provide for thoir duld- 

l 



6« 



Mr M'CuUoch'* Irish Svidence. 



lUm. 



rcn^ to cbntrftct the siie of their fiurms^ 
subdiTide the estate, and people it 
with inhabitants of had character. 
Exceptions there are in both cases ;— 
we speak generally. The truth of 
this we eonceiye to be decisively esta- 
blished by the condition of the agri- 
caltural population of Britain and 
Ireland. 

While we hold it to be manifest, that 
exorlntant rents andsub-diyision flow 
from absenteeism, we hold it to be 
equally manifest, that the constcmi re- 
SMcnce of the landlord in Ireland is 
not requisite as a remedy. If he will 
<mly dwell on his esUte a very few 
months in Uie year, and either let it 
himself, or suflW it to be let by a 
Mloried agent, under his personal di" 
reetion and control, this is proved by 
the state of Britain to be all that is 
necessary. We say now, as we have 
said before, that we do not wish to see 
the Irish landlords dwell constantly 
on their estates. It is essential for the 
good of Ireland, that they should be 
m Parliament, that they should dwell 
much in London, and that they should 
mix largely with the British ones. 
The whole that we wish the Irish 
landlord to do is, that they will act 
like Chose of England. 

Mr M'Culloch, however, denies 
that absenteeism produces evils of any 
kind ; he asserts that the return of 
the absentees would only benefit Ire- 
land in the most trifling degree, if at 
all. He ^[leaks against sub-letting, but 
he does not conceive the return of the 
landlords necessary for its extinction. 
It has been again and again declared 
by government, that a sufficient num- 
ber of men of proper respectability 
could not be found to form the Ma- 

g'stracy, yet the residence of the land- 
rd would yield no benefit ! It is said 
that some of the Magistrates are defi- 
cient in knowledge and pinciple, yet 
their being combined with, and pla- 
oed under the influence of men of 
high Fank-*-members of Parliament 
-^men spending a part of every 
year in the first society in the 
metropolis, would neither improve 
them, nor benefit Ireland ! It would 
have no tendency to civilize and better 
the condition of Ireland, were rich 
and polished families to be scattered 
about throughout its whde village po- 
pulation, to furnish example, to esta- 
blish schools, to supply the poor with 
food and clothing in times of necessi- 



ty, to watch over morala and coodaot^ 
and to stimulate improvenenta ■ in 
husbandry, housewifery, &c by in- 
struction and reward. Out upcm such 
political economy ! 

The Philosopher says nothing 
against per cenfage a^nts and middle- 
men, but his favourite mode of ma- 
naging an estate is thifr^The land- 
lord shall dwell constantly abroad, 
and the estate shall be nn^ the ex- 
clusive authority of a hired agent 
This agent will generally be taken 
from the lower of the middiung clasnes, 
he will be a man of f mall fortune, but 
more likely of none at all, and he will 
have a salary of perhiups from one to 
three, or five hundreoi per annum. 
Now, looking at the points which we 
have enumerated above, touching the 
masistracy, civilization, schools, &c. 
will any man living say that an a^^nt 
like this will be more valuable— wiU 
not be infinitely less valuable— upon 
an estate, than a nobleman or gentle- 
man of large fortune ? Our larger Eng- 
lish landlords generally keep such an 
agent notwithstanding their residence. 
On these points, such an agent would 
be worthless ; he would be merely a 
hired servant, without a master to 
overlook him, and like other hired 
servants, he would do as little as pos- 
sible for his wages. 

Looking merely at the letting of a 
large estate, it is a trust infinitdy too 
great for such an agent, and he will 
be pretty sure to abuse it in one way 
or another. The resident landlord la 
under powerful internal and external 
restraints in the exercise of his autho- 
rity over the tenants, but iVom such 
checks the agent is almost wholly 
free. His master never sees him ; he 
is a man of the world, and cares but 
little fcr public opinion, and he has 
the tenants at his mercy. His income 
is small, and he wishes to increase it : 
he is exposed to every temptation to 
abuse his trust, at the cost of the 
tenants. We scarcely ever knew the 
hired agent of an English absentee 
landlord, that is, of a landkH-d who 
dwelt constantly in a foreign country, 
who did his duty properly. What Mr 
M'Culloch says in favour of the Scot- 
tish agents may be true; but, from 
what we have seen of Eng^sh ones, 
and of human nature, we are confi- 
dent, that, if all the estates of a na- 
tion were placed under the excluaive 
control of hired agents, the greater 



iftw.;] 



Mr M'CuBoch's Irish Evidences 



67 



part of these agents would abuse tibeir 
trust in the most scandalous arid per- 
nicious manner. If we are mistaken, 
the world is under a gross delusion, 
in fancying that servants need to be 
looked after by masters, and that Mi- 
nisters of State, and others who hold 
great trusts, ought to be surrounded 
with r^traints,and vigilantly watched. 

The Philosopher admits, that in Scot- 
land the land of absentee landlords is 
let at a higVer rent than that of resi- 
dent ones. He makes this a matter of 
choice on the part of the tenant, be- 
cause " no tenant likes to live under 
that system of survdllance and over- 
looking which is generally exercised 
by a landlord ;" and because when a 
luidlord eoes abroad, '^ his afiairs are 
managed by his factor, or agent, who is 
generally a very intelligent person, 
and much more conversant with coun- 
try afiairs than the landlords are ; so 
that the tenants prefer dealing with 
him to dealing with the landlora." 

We who now hold the pen were 
born in, and beiong to, England ; we 
never saw Scotland, and we do not pre- 
tend to know how these things are 
managed among our Scottish fdlow- 
subjects. We see quite sufficient in the 
conduct of certain Scotch writers in 
(he metropolis to deter us from dila- 
ting on local matters of which we have 
no knowledge. These people write day 
after day, touching our English pea- 
santry and country gentlemen, and 
every line proves that they know no 
more of either than the Hottentot. 
Every one who is at all acquainted with 
our country population must know, 
that the diatribes which they put forth 
against our '^unpaid magistracy," form 
the most nauseous compound of stone- 
blind ignorance, and groundless slan- 
der, that ever appeared In print. That 
is odd philosophy which bottoms itself 
upon direct falsehoods. That is odd 
* * liberality " which occupies itself with 
blasting the reputation of the most ge- 
nerous, upright, and honourable men 
in the community. 

Although we cannot contradict Mr 
M'Ctdloch from our personal know- 
ledge of Scotland, we still can supply 
a contradiction which will satisfy our 
readers. An Address has recently been 
circulated by the Invcmess-shire Far- 
ming Society, which does honour to 
those from whom it has emanated, and 
which, on the part of the tenantry of 



Scotbnd, distinctly denies the as8«r« 
tions of Mr M'CuUoch. 

We are, however^ no strangers to 
the landlords and tenants of England ; 
and, certainly, what Mr M'CuUoch sayi 
would be very erroneous if applied to 
our English tenants. Wewilld^videoolr 
landlords into two classes — the small 
and the great ones. A landlord who 
has only one fiinn, or two/ and whose 
whole income arises from his land^ 
looks after his tenant principally to ^t 
as much rent as he can. The great 
landlord looks after his tenant chiefly 
on the score of management and con« 
duct. In the one case, the tenant has 
to fear from *' surveillance and over- 
looking" an advance of rent, and in 
the other, reproof, or a discharge. Is 
it likely that he will give an advance 
of rent at once rather than live in fear 
of it, or prefer a bad farm to a good 
one, merely because an improbable 
evil may befall him ? If he leave the 
landlord, and take the farm of an i^ent^ 
what then ? He exchanges the *' sur- 
veillance and overlooking' of the land- 
lord for those of the agent ; and in al* 
most all cases, the *^ surveillance and 
overlooking" c^ the agent are infinitely 
more busy, tormenting, and injurious, 
than those of the landlord. The lat- 
ter perhaps leaves him for great part 
of tne year, but the agent is always 
near him. 

fiut then the tenant likes to deal 
with the agent because he is m<nre con- 
versant with country afiairs than the 
landlord. Answer us these questions, 
ye town and city shopkeepers? From 
which can you obtam the best bar- 
gain in buying your goods— the rich 
novice, or the keen man who thorough- 
ly understands his business ? Do you 
prefer buying of the latter at higher 
prices merely on account of his better 
knowledge of trade? A farmer has to 
choose between two farms of equal va- 
lue : the rent of the one is five shil- 
lings per week more than that of the 
other ; and yet, according to Mr M'- 
Culloch, he prefers the dear one, be- 
cause he has to take it, not of a rich 
gentleman, who is not very knowing 
in agricultural matters, and who cares 
but Tittle for money, but of a shrewd, 
crafty, experienoed man of business ! 
This certainly cannot need any refuta- 
tion. 

Our EngUsh tenants, we • bdievc, 
fear the " surveillance and overlook* 



68 



Mr M'jCuUoch's Irish Evidenae. 



ing" of the agent mudi more than 
thotse of the liuSdlord. The latter ne- 
ver enters their houses, he is not very 
skilful in judging of their crops^ and 
he acts impartiaUy towards all. The 
agent visits among them, and he hears 
much private mstory and aknder 
which ought never to reach him. He 
is pufied up with his own importance, 
and expects the utmost deference to he 
paid him. He is more or less under 
the guidance of his own paltry personal 
interests. He favours one tenant be- 
cause he is wealthy, or gives him tlie 
best dinner, or sends him the most 
presents, or treats him with the most 
reverence: he is hostile to another 
tenant because he is poor, or because 
his mind has been poisoned against him 
by slander, or because he is not suffi- 
ciently humble. He can always calcu- 
late pretty accurately what the tenants 
make of weir farms. The landlord is 
jealous of his honour, public opinion 
has great influence over him, and he 
has a pride in a highly cultivated es- 
tate and respectable tenants : but the 
case is wholly different with the agent ; 
he merely acts for hire, and if he do 
the most odious things, he can throw 
the blame upon his principal. A tenant 
must be exposed to the '' surveillance 
and overlooking" of either the land- 
lord or the agent ; and we believe that 
those of the latter will generally be 
the most active and injurious. 

Reasoning, however, is idle, when 
the question has been decided by ex- 
perience. In England, the best farms 
are those which are let by, or under 
the direction of, the landlord: the 
worst are those which are exclusively 
under the management of an agent. 
This refers, of course, to middling and 
large estates, and not to the land of 
small proprietors. The case is the same 
in Scotland according to Mr M^Cul- 
loch's own showing. In England, our 
farmers are anxious to leave the dear 
farms of absentees for cheap ones un- 
der resident landlords ; we cannot but 
think that the case is the same with 
the Scottish ones. 

Let us now apply the Philosopher's 
doctrines to Ireland. In England the 
absentee landlord commonly pays his 
agent by a regular salary^ and gives 
him instructions to exact no more than 
moderate rents, so that the tenant is 
still ta a certain degree under the pro- 
tection of the lanmord. But in Ire- 
land it appears, that where an agent 



is employed, he is almo6t always ^aid 
by a per centage. The landlora gives 
up the letting of his estate entirdy to 
him. He in effect says — " Lay on 
what rent you please, — ^if you brii^ 
me none, 1 will pay you nothing — I 
will allow you so much for every hun- 
dred pouncls that you may bring me." 
Now, to the tenants, this agent is in 
reality as much the landlord,- as he 
would be should the fee simple of the 
estate belong to him. He has them 
perfectly at ms mercy ; he is a resident 
landlord ; he has them constantly un« 
der his eye ; and he is incessantly sti- 
mulated by personal interest to rank 
from them the utmost farthing. 

If the estate of the absentee be not 
in the hands of an agent Uke this^ it 
is generally in those of middlemen. 
These middlemen are in reality the 
only landlords that the mass of the 
tenants know or have ; they are con- 
stantly among the tenants ; and the 
only interest that they have in the land, 
is to extort the highest rents possible. 

Courteous readers — ^whether ye be 
English farmers or Scottish ones-*- 
whetber ye be inhabitants of the coun- 
try, who are familiar with the sight of 
green fields— or natives of London, 
who have never ventured out of the 
smoke of that famous city — we leave 
to you the decision of these questions. 
Does the Irish cultivator escape *' sur- 
veillance and overlooking," because 
the owner of his land is an absentee ? 
Is he not under the most odious and 
pernicious ^* surveillance and over- 
looking" that could be imagined ? 

The " surveillance and overlooking" 
of our greater English landlords ex- 
tend principally to conduct. These 
landlords know that they could obtain 
much higher rents, but they do not 
wish it ; they pry but little into the 
pecuniary affairs of their tenants. 
What a tenant has to fear from them 
is chiefly displeasure for suffering his 
fences, &c. to get out of order ; for 
managing his land in a slovenly, un- 
profitable manner ; or for being extra- 
vagant, drunken, or immoral. The 
*^ surveillance and overlooking" of the 
only landlord that the tenant in reali- 
tv has in Ireland, are eternally upon 
this tenant, chiefly for the purpose of 
keeping his rent at the highest point : 
his management and conduct are mi- 
nor matters. Now, how does the dif- 
ference operate to the tenants and to 
society in the mass ? 



1826.;] 



Mr M^Cfdhch's Irish Evidence, 



69 



; In Englandy the tenants «re in coin« 
fortahle and respectable circumstances ; 
many of them are wealthy; they are in- 
dustrious and knowing cultivators; and 
in respect of morals, they are scarcely 
equalled by any class in the community. 
Their own excellent morals hare the 
best efiects upon those of their servants. 
In Ireland the tenants of the absentees 
are poor and barbarous ; they are 
vrretched cultivators ; and they are 
vicious and depraved. In England it 
is a thing almost unknown, for the 
tenant of a great landlord, if he only 
occupy a cottage^ to be immoral, or to 
be concerned in a criminal action. The 
Irish papers frequently tell us, that in 
Ir^nd the occupiers of pretty large 
tracts of land are often concerned in 
those horrible outrages which almost 
daily disgrace the sister kingdom, and 
that the whole country population 
combines to screen from justice the 
perpetrators of these outrages. 
. Nevertheless, the Philosopher as- 
sures us, that, in a moral point of 
view, Ireland loses very little from its 
landlords being absentees. Wonderful 
Philosopher ! He assures us farther, 
that absenteeism is not the cause of 
the middlemen system ; and that the 
number of middlemen would not be 
materially diminished if there were no 
absentees. Of course, if a landlord 
dwell on his estate, he will let it to a 
middleman for a trifling rent ; he will 
content himself with a much smaller 
income than he might obtain when 
the cultivators will have to pay much 
higher rents than he would demand ; 
he will make himself a mere cipher 
on his estate, and amidst his tenants ; 
he will suflt^r this middleman to parcel 
out and manage his land, and tyran- 
nize over his tenants at pleasure; he 
will give to this middleman the sole 
control over his estate and tenants ; — 
he will do all this in preference to 
having his estate and tenants entirely 
under his management and authority. 
The most finished Cockney that Cock- 
aigne can produce, would hardly swal- 
low such philosophy. Once more we 
say— Wonderful Philosopher ! 

Absenteeism, and not the want of 
capitsJ, is the primary cause of the 
middleman system. No resident land- 
lord will give to another person the 
control of his estate, and the dignity 
and influence which it yields him, the 
more especially as he can always pro- 
cure an agent to take off his hands the 



laborious part of the management. 
Agricultural capital cannot exist with 
middlemen and per centage agents. 
Where these people find any, they 
speedily dissipate it ; and where they 
find none, they eflfectually prevent any 
from being created. In tne last thirty 
years, England has been increasing 
the size of its farms, and making im- 
mense additions to its agricultural ca- 
pital. In the same period, and with 
nearly the same markets, Ireland has 
been regularly diminishing the size of 
its fatms and the amount of its agri- 
cultural capital. Were the land of 
England placed under middlemen and 
per centage agents, very few of our 
next generation of farmers would pos- 
sless sufficient capital for the cultiva- 
tion of a farm of one hundred and fifty 
acres. 

Mr M^Culloch stated it to be his 
belief, that if we had sheriff-courts 
like those of Scotland, and if the es- 
tates were managed by agents like 
those who manage the estates of the 
Scotch absentees, England would gain 
by the absence of the great proportion 
of the land proprietors. Most delici- 
ous intelligence this would be to you, 
ye proud landholders of England ! 
You are not merely useless — you are 
an evil to your country ! Richly did 
you deserve the insult for bringing 
such a man before you. 

England, beloved land of our fa- 
thers ! If thy* nobles and country gen- 
tlemen leave thee to dwell constantly 
abroad — if thy country magistrates 
consist of pennyless, pert, place-hunt- 
ing lawyers — if thy Ministry and two 
Houses of Parliament be composed of 
traders, weavers, lawyers, and philoso- 
phers ; of such men as Alderman 
Wood, Alderman Waithman, Peter 
Moore, Joseph Hume, Sir R. Wilson, 
Mr Brougham, and Mr M'Culloch, it 
will cause thy interests to be far bet- 
ter managed. If thy village population 
be taken from the control of generous, 
high-minded noblemen and gentle- 
men, who are under the most power- 
ful restraints for exercising, their in- 
fiuence and authority in the most be- 
neficial manner, and be placed under 
that of low-bred, mercenary people, 
almost wholly free from restrictions in 
the exercise of their despotic power, it 
will benefit the interests and character 
of tliis population. If the many mil- 
lions of rent which arc paid to thy 
landholders be sent to foreign countries 



70 



Mr M'CuUoch's Irish Evidence. 



CJin. 



to return no mor^— to be expended in 
employing the labour and promoting 
the commerce and manufactures of 
these countries, instead of thy own, it 
will increase thy wealth and prosperity. 
What pension wilt thou award, and 
how many statues of gold wilt thou 
decree, to the astonishing Philosopher ? 

Seriously— does it not surpass all 
comprehension, that a man who seems 
not to have been stark-mad — ^who is 
evidently as destitute of nassion and 
enthusiasm as a flint — should have 
uttered such absurdities? They not 
only outrage common sense, but they 
fly m the teeth of the most decisive de- 
monstration. A single glance from 
Ireland to England is sufficient to cover 
them with derision. We thank those 
who put questions to Mr M'CuUoch 
like that touching the seven-eighths of 
the landed proprietors. They spurred 
him lip to the very climax of nonsense ; 
they made him stretch the cobweb of 
his philosophy, until he tore it to tat- 
ters ; they constrained him to hold up 
his own doctrines to the ridicule of the 
most ignorant. 

After what we have said, we need 
not enter into any long re^tation of 
the Economist's doctrine, that, if the 
English absentees who now dwell in 
France, were to dwell at home, it 
would make no difference to England. 
Here again we have practically the as- 
sumption that we send to these absen- 
tees their incomes in precisely the com- 
modities which they consume; and, 
moreover, that we send them taxed 
commodities — our taxed wine, tea, &c. 
&c. From the prohibitory system of 
France, these absentees scarcely add a 
^:hilling's worth to our exports of com- 
modities ; their incomes are sent them 
in money, and this constantly does 
more or less injury to the trade of this 
country, looking only at the exchanges. 
Many of them draw their incomes from 
our taxes ; these incomes are raiseil in 
precisely the same way in their absence 
that they woiUd be raised in should 
they dwell at home; and they are 
exclusively expended in employing 
French tradesmen, mechanics, and la- 
bourers, and contributing to the French 
revenue. Many of these incomes are 
practically paid in this manner. A sum 
of money is taken firom our exchequer, 
and sent to France in bills; imme- 
diately afterwards gold has to be sent 
to, in effect, take up the bills. If the 
incomes of these absentees were reg\i- 



Uurlysent them hj ctmA and'padeet in 
hard sovereigns, it would be mudi Aef 
same to this country as their present 
mode of transmission. 

We will assume that there are twe 
officers who receive annually from tibe 
taxes of this country three hundred 
pounds each. The one dwdls in Eng* 
land, the other in France. Erery one 
knows, that when their inoofmes are 
paid, that of the one has operated in its 
raising, exactly like that of the othef, 
on the industry, &c. of the oodntry. 
Well, these incomes are paid in tore- 
reigns ; the one takes his soy er e l gni to 
his dwelling in England : those of the 
other are in effect sent him by coach 
and boat to France, for he oohsones, 
by his residence in France, scarcdhr 
any of the few commodities which it 
imports from England. The one who 
dwells in England immcdiatiAy ex- 
pends his sovereigns in employing the 
English farmer, ploughman, millerj 
merchant, sailor, grocer, tailor, wea- 
ver, &c. &c. He consumes many com-* 
modities that are heavily taxed; he 
occupies a house which pays house and 
window duty, and of course no snidl 
part of his income returns back to die 
exchequer ; he pays poor's rates^ and 
thus contributes to support the poor of 
his country. But the one who dwells 
in France, employs only the fktaaet. 
Sic, &c. of France; he contributes 
only to the revenue of France ; bis ex- 
penditure, compared with diat of the 
other, is so much clear gain to France, 
and dead loss to England. Yet in die 
face of this, Mr M'CuUoch asserts diat 
it makes no difference to England idie- 
ther its absentees dwell athome or in 
France. Many of the Economists mtik6 
a great uproar in favom: of consnmp- 
tion ; they maintain that ev^thing 
possible should be done to prom9t^ it; 
but here is this wonderful Philosopher 
confounding production with con- 
sumption, and declaring, that if niivfr- 
tentns of die consumption of this ooan« 
try were annihilated, it would prodace 
no public evil. 

Such stuff is not worthy the name 
of paradox ; it is silly nonsense, that 
would dii^race the most ignorant hind 
ill the country. We blush to think that 
it needs refutation^-our cheeks born 
with shame when we reflect that it Yum 
been listened to by the Parliament of 
England. The present is called an en- 
lightened agc> and this is a portion of 
the /7^//^ Men like Mr M'Culloch 



me dM coBcluBifiely ^' enligfateiied ;" 
they aw the only peo^ who haye 
6naiidpated- thenotBcives from " pre- 
judioesy'* and who are infallible ; they 
are the only men who have escaped 
fiom the '' ignotance and bigotry" of 
past agea— who have outstripped all in 
the '^ maidi of intellect" — and who 
hare rendered themselves even too wiae 
and knowing for the times they live 
in; they are the people to langh to 
serarn the founders of England's free- 
dom^ prosperity^ happiness^ and great-i 
ness ; and to be entrusted with the sub- 
vernon or alteration of everything va- 
InaUe in the empire. Te " thinking 
people" of England, what ofHuion 
most be entertained of you by poste- 

We are not quite so much in&tuated 
with '* economics " as Mr M'Culloch, 
and therefore we must say something 
more touching these English alnentees, 
before we take our leave of them. 
When men/ merely for die sake of 
pleasure or some trifling pecuniary 
saving, abandon their country to dwell 
ecmBtantly in a foreign one, we think 
ikie abandonment should be mutual. 
We think their country should cast 
them oJ9^ when they cast off their 
country. These mongrels, who are 
neither fish nor flesh, who are neither 
English nor French, who, instc^ of 
sympathizing with, and benefittinp^ 
weir country, rob and injure it, and 
who proclaim by their conduct that 
they prefer another to it, — these per- 
sona certainly ought not to be placed 
on a level with the resident population. 
Some brand should be fixed upon 
them, by deprivation of privileges, or 
other means, to hold up their want of 
English feeling to the scorn of the na- 
tion. Many of them, we believe, hold 
<ommis^ons in the army and navy. 
Now we ask if a man, who has from 
choice dwelt many years in France, or 
any other foreign country; who has 
Jrom choice been for these years cut off 
frpm all personal intercourse with his 
eoimtrvmen, be a fit and proper per- 
son to hold authority in a ship of war 
or in the army ? We ask if such a man 
can be expected to have that love of 
eoontry-Ahose genuine British fecl- 
ii^ which are essential in all who 
wear the British uniform ? It ought 
to be a condition with all who draw 
their incomes from the public purse, 
that they should dwell constantly in 



Mr M'CuUoch's Irish Evidtnee. 



71 



this country, when not called from it 
by public service. 

We must now turn to the Riiloso- 
pher's doctrine, that " almost all great 
improvements in every country, nave 
originated among merchants and ma- 
nufiicturers." 

Mr M'Culloch and his economic 
brethren are people who cannot possi- 
bly see the whole of anything. Ques- 
tion them touching a watch, and they 
will tell you that the interior works 
are useless, and that the ditX is alone 
valuable. Ask them respecting a hOTse, 
and they will say that the l^s and 
back are alone useful, and diat 1J^ 
bowels are a^ positive nuisance. To 
improve machinery, they would de- 
stroy the moving power ; to coin a far- 
thing they woum waste a guinea ; to 
build a jolly-boat, they would puU to 
pieces a seventy-four ; to make some 
paltry canal tbat would scarcely float 
a washii^-tub, they would fill wp the 
ocean. They cannot see that agricul- 
ture forms part of a whole along with 
manufactures and commerce. On, no! 
agriculture is the nuisance— agricul- 
ture is the pestilence by which manu- 
factures and commerce are blasted. 
Ruin the agriculturists, ye merchants 
and manu&cturars — deprive them of 
the means of buying your goods — and 
then you will flourisn ! Glorious times 
will ye have, ye importers, when the 
chief part of consumption shall be an- 
nihilated — a prodigious increase of 
trade ye will gain, ye manufacturers, by 
selling one hundred thousand pounds' 
worth of goods less at home, in order 
to sell ten thousand pounds' wortK 
more abroad. 

The antipathy of the Economists to 
the landed interest does not, however, 
proceed altogether from a wish to be- 
nefit manufactures and commerce. — 
The country gentlemen keep the ma- 
gistracy from the hands of philosophic 
lawyers; the farmers and husbandry 
labourers cannot well be reached tobie 
filled with ''Uberal ideas." The land- 
ed interest weighs very heavily in Par- 
liament against the new philosophy ; 
it forms a mighty impediment to tne 
*' liberalizing," or, in other words, to 
the subverting of our laws and insti- 
tutions. Its consent is necessary, and 
it will not give it, to enable the Philo- 
sophers to pull to pieces the monarchy. 
Here is the sore. Here is the cause 
why it is so desirable for the«land- 



7'i 



Mr M'CuUocKt 



holders to dwell out of the country, 
and why agriculture is so worthless, 
compared with commerce and manu- 
factures. 

With regard to improvements, let 
U6 glance at the history of this coun- 
try. We apprehend that in respect to 
wealth, as, well as other things, it is 
very necessary for a nation to have a 
good constitution, and good laws. Now 
with whom did our constitution and 
laws originate — with the landed inte- 
rest, or the merchants and manufac- 
turers? Who sh^ their hlood like 
water to found the glorious structure 
under which we live r The owners and 
cultivators of the soil, or history is only 
fahle. We rtad of the worthy traders 
of London and other parts heing in 
former times amazingly obseqviious to 
the government, but not of their sa- 
criiicing life and proix rty for law and 
freedom. Once indeed tlse trading in- 
terests of this country did in a great 
dq^ree get up a revolution in opiwsi* 
tion to the landed interest ; they tri- 
umphed, and what then ? They esta- 
blished a military despotism. AVe are 
indebted principally to the Lmded in- 
terest for our constitution and laws. 

When we look at other natiuiis, we 
cannot see that any of tliem has been 
indebted to its traders for n good sys- 
tem of governnirnt. The revolutions 
of France, Spain, &c. got up as tliey 
chiefly were by the inhabitants of 
towns, were neither wisciin principle, 
nor fruitful of benefit. In the Ame- 
ricas, the brunt of the struggle seems 
to have Vc'.n borne by the men of the 
.soil. 

(Commerce and manufactures owe 
their origin to the landed interest, and 
they cannot exist without it. What- 
ever weahh they may accumuLite, they 
draw from it the chief portion. Why 
do not tlie agriculturists accmnulatc 
large fortunes like tlie merchants and 
manufacturers } Are they less indus- 
trious, less frugal, or less able in bu- 
siness ? No such thing. The merchant 
and manufacturer are allowed to ob- 
tain the highest profit in their power, 
while the agriculturist is bound down 
to tVe lowest possible. If accident 
raise him to a level with them, laws 
arc instantly resorted to, to bring him 
down agaiu. They may charge him 
what they please, but he must charge 
them only what the government may 
suffer^ 'rhe greatest additions that 
were over ma<le lo the wealth (»f this 



Iriih EviiUncc. QJi 

country were made to it dorii^ the 
war'hy the agriculturistSy when no- 
thing could TO empl^red to prevent 
the Utter from eqnamng the trading 
classes in profits. Neither this coun- 
try, nor any other, was ever rich, when 
its landed mtorest was regularly poor ; 
and, in spite of the merchants and 
manufacturers, if our landed interest 
be plunged into poverty, we shall soon 
cease to be a rich nation. It is ridi- 
culous to ascribe the chief part of 
public wealtli to those things which 
cannot exist without a landed interest, 
and which can scarcely contribute a 
shiUing to this wealth without its as- 
sistance. 

Let us now look at other matters. 
Who have always bec-n the chief pa- 
trons of Hterature and the arts ? The 
great landliolders. Who liave always 
marched at the head of dvilization and. 
refinement? The great landholders. 
\\'ho, by their profuse expenditure, 
have given the greatest stimulants to 
inventions and discoveries of every de- 
scription .'* The great landholders. 

Ucasoning on the question seems to 
be very useless when we look at Ire- 
hmd. Here is a country, a large part 
of which has not in reality what is 
understood by the term, a landed in- 
terest. The landlonls dwell abroad, 
and a very few of the cultivators arc 
worthy of being called iarmers. This 
part of Ireland is, to a very great ex- 
tent, without connncrcc and manufac- 
tures, and it is poor, l^arbarous, and 
depraved : h:id it pnictically possessed 
a landed interest, thj case would un- 
doubtedly have been perfectly diffe- 
rent. 

V/e say this in favour of the agri- 
culturists, merely on the defensive : 
far be it from us to undervalue . the 
merchunts and manufacturers. When 
we defend the former we likewise de- 
fend the latter. The three form a 
whole ; their joint exertions as n 
whole, and not the separate ones of 
any of the parts, have rendered the 
country what it is. One of the jiarts 
may, hov/ever, be more valuable tlian 
the others ; as a man's head, althougli 
it forms a part of his body, may be of 
more worth than his legs or anus. 
Valuable as commerce and manufac- 
tures unquestionably are, agriculture 
is still more valuable. That is no new 
doctrine ; for it has hitherto been held 
by all the first authorities of the 
country. To ruin ajrriculture for the 

II 



i626.;3 



Mr M^Cullodis Irish Evidence. 



1% 



benefit of commerce and manufacturea 
wov^d be the same, in our judgment, 
as to cut off a man's head for the bene* 
fit of his legs and arms. And yet no- 
thing less in these days is spoken of. 
If commerce and manufactures suffer 
sudi men as Mr M'Culloch to divide 
tiiem £FOm, and array them a^nst 
t^eir parent, they will soon bitterly 
lament it 1 

We will now proceed to the ques-^ 
tion toudiing the revenue of Ireland. 

Why is the land of Ireland exeropt« 
ed from direct taxation ? It has two 
or three distinct landlords to support, 
and fhen it is overloaded in the most 
fearful manner with cultivators. It 
lias so many mouths and purses to 
provide for, that it cannot contribute 
anything to the Exchequer. 'Why is 
it m this condition ? It is placed in 
it by absenteeism — by the very thing 
^hat the Philosopher asserts produces 
no evil to Ireland. If it had only its 
owners, and the number of cultivators 
requisite for its proper culture to sup- 
port, it could then pay taxes like that 
of England. This might have been 
the case with it, had it been under the 
management of its owners during the 
war. The high prices would have 
given capital to the tenant, and the 
^eat demand for labour, and high 
wages in this country, would have 
taken off the surplus hands. 

Let us now turn to indirect taxa- 
tion. A vast portion of the Irish cul- 
tivators, from the extortions of their 
various landlords, and the small- 
ness of their allotments of land, can 
neither consume taxed commodi- 
ties, nor employ those who do con- 
sume them. Let any man place be- 
fore him two English farmers — the 
one paying a rackrent, and the other 
a very moderate one — and mark the 
difference between them in eonsmnp- 
tion. The consumption of the one in 
utensils is almost double that of the 
oth». The one keeps his family well 
And respectably clothed; the other 
expends nothing in the clothing of 
his family beyond what is wrung from 
him by necessity. The one often has 
friends to visit him ; he consumes 
much taxed Honor, tea, sugar, cur- 
rants, spices, &c.: the other rarely 
haa visitors; he lives principally on 
the plainest produce of nis farm, and 
he ^Lpends tae least possible in taxed 
commodities. The one employs more 
labourers than the other, and he ge- 

\ou XIX. 



nerally p^ys higher wagei. The farm- 
er, who is a great consumer, boiefits 
the revenue infinitely , beyond the 
amount of duty which is'paid by what 
he consumes. He employs the vil- 
Itlge blacksmith, carpenter, tailor, &c ; 
he employs the producers and- distri- 
butors of the commodities, and he 
thereby enables them to consume. 

In the examination, Scotland was 
brought into contrast with Ireland. 
Now, how stands the case with Scot- 
land ? Its land is not oyerrented, or 
overloaded with occupiers. The farm- 
ers are good consumers of taxed com- 
modities, and by this they create a 
vast number of other consumers. 

Ireland, unlike England and Scot- 
land, exports a large portion of its 
agricultural produce ; its exports, to 
a great extent, consist of such pro- 
duce which, as wo have shown, causes 
the most trifling consumption of taxed 
commodities in its raising and ship* 
ment. The exports of Scotland con* 
sist chiefly of manufactured goods.^ 
These exports employ the agricultu- 
rists, who are in proportion far greater 
consumers of taxed commodities than 
the Irish agriculturists, and in addi- 
tion they employ the manufacturers^ 
traders, &c. who ore ver^ great con- 
sumers of such commodities. The ex- 
ports of Ireland, to a large extent, 
employ the agriculturists alone. Now, 
if Ireland were like Scotland — ^if its 
land were not over-rented, and had no 
more than the requisite number of 
cultivators to maintain — and if it had 
a sufficient number of nianufacturersy 
traders, &c. to consume the whole, or 
nearly the whole of Its agricultural 
produce — ^how would this operate on 
the matter before us ? The agricul- 
turists, though greatly diminished in 
number, would consume about as 
many taxed commodities as they con* 
sume at present, and there would be 
an immense host of manufu^turers, 
traders, &c. created to join them in 
such consumption. Ireland might then 
stand on a par with Scotlana in its 
contributions to the revenue. 

If the Irish peasantry should dwell 
in decent houses built by th^ regular 
builders — should have these houses 
decently furnished by the regular ma- 
kers of furniture — snould keep them- 
selves decently clad, in clothing sup- 
plied by the rc^ar manufacturers and 
makers— shoidd regularly burn coals 
—should regularly consume teaj, su- 

K 



74 



Mr M'CuUi^/is Irish Evidence. 



ZSmA 



gar, dried fruity spices, Sec &e. would 
not this employ u mighty number of 
manufacturers, tradesmen, meclumics, 
ike. who cannoi now exist in Ireland ? 
Wliy cannot this peasantry do this 
in an equal degree with the peasantry 
of Britain ? Look for an answer to 
the per centage agents and middlemen 
--or in other words to absenteeism. 
■ It is said that the depravity and tur- * 
bulenc^ of the Irish peasantry prevent 
British capital from establishing ma- 
nufactures. Sec. in some of the most 
distressed parts of Ireland. This de- 
pravity and turbulence must be as- 
cribed in a great degree to the per 
centage agents and middlemen. The 
latter ilivest the cultivators of capital, 
the land must then of necessity be 
divided into the smallest portions, 
and the cultivators must be poor, ig- 
norant, idle, and without control. 
Look at an English estate. The con- 
4luet of the farmers is constantly under 
the eye and control of the landlord, 
or the agent who acts under his di- 
-rections ; the farmers are men of pro- 
'jperty and respectability, and the con- 
duet of the remainder of the inhabi- 
tants is under their eye and control. 
Wliat is the consequence ? Our vil- 
Inge population is kept in the very 
liest order without a single salaried 
peace-officer — without a single indi- 
vidual's being regularly employed in 
preserving the peace. Look at tlie Irish 
estate of the Duke of Devonshire, 
which appears to be managed to a 
great extent af^er the English fashion. 
Upon it turbulence and outrage are 
said to be unknown. On this ])oint, 
and with r^ard to the employnient of 
so great a number of troops, absen- 
teeism is still the great cause. We 
grant the tremendous authority of the 
Catholic Priests, but nevertheless, a 
landlord can let his land to whom he 
pleases ; he can let it wholly to Pro- 
testants, or to such Catholics only as 
will be peaceable and orderly. 

We will here offer no comment on 
Mr M'Cnlloch's opinions touching the 
Poor Laws. We promised a Paper on 
these Laws some time since, and our 
promiseis yet unperformed, solely be- 
eause we think such topics possess the 
greatest interest when Parliament is 
assembled; it will not long remain 
unperformed. 

We have only space to touch very 
hrieflf on two other parts of the Phi- 
loscpher's evidence. He states that 



government ought to establish idiostt 
in Ireland, to teach what— -the leadiiiff 
principles of religion and morals r 
No ! To teach children between aeven 
and thirteen " the elementary prind- 
pies which show how wages are deu 
termined, or on what the oonditioii of 
the poor must depend!" Now> let 
Parliament look at the Combinationt 
in Britain and Ireland, and it willd]»- 
cover that in both couDtriea the la- 
bouring classes are perfectly familiar 
with these principles already. The 
weavers of England, the colliers of 
Scotland, and the gas-men of Irdand^ 
— the most uncidtivated ''operatives^" 
know perfectly, tliat if there be too 
many of them in their calling, it 
makes wages bad and work scarce. 
Several of SieCombinationshaYe made 
and enforced laws expressly to keep 
apprentices and others out of their 
callings--or, in other words, -to pf»- 
vent labour from becoming super* 
abundant in these callings, llietoicii* 
ing of such principles to the labouinK 
population can have no other practical 
efiect than ComlMnation. What effect 
have the doctrines touching capital 
and htbonr had among the &houring 
classes ? They have caused labour to 
make war upon capitaL Every la^ 
bouring roan, we believe, always knowa 
that, if his wages be bad, or if he 
cannot procure employment, there are 
too many labourers in his vocation'; 
but whether he knows this or not, it 
is a matter of no consequence to him 
unless the knowledge lead him to. 
Combination. If he do not resort to 
this, he can apply no remedy to the 
evil so far as it affects his own occupa^ 
tion. We really think there is no 
necessity whatever for Parliament i» 
establish schools to teach the wwking 
classes to form themselves into Com^ 
binations. 

With regard to teaching chikhieA 
at school, that if they marry too soonv 
they will do themselves great ii^ury 
— this we think is eqnaBy umieeesi^ 
sary. Almost all our young people 
throughout our labouring pomdamna 
have this continually rung in thdr 
ears, from thehr infancy to ule time of 
their marriage, by parents and eyeiy 
one else — and they profit ftom il very 
little. People ure impelled to marry 
at too early an age, by a passion whioA 
Political Economy can neither extia* 
guish nor regnlate^by a passion 
which laughs to scorn luasonj imrtnio* 



. • I 



IB26.J 



Mr M'Cullocris Irish EvXdcnci, 



r* 



tkm, and even Mr M'CuUoch himself. 
The perfect heartlessness, and the 
gross ignora;ice of the influence of 
the more powerful and ennobling feel- 
ings of the human heart, which Mr 
M^Culloch manifests throughout his 
evidence, are alike surprising and re- 
Bokive. He places the Noble on a 
level with the Agent ; he ascribes the 
effects of nature to the want of in- 
struction ; and he speaks* as though hu- 
man conduct could never be influenced 
by any other principle than that of 
pecuniary profit and loss. If philoso- 
phy consist in stoicism he is no doubt 
a philosopher; and yet his stoicism 
has nothing stern, d^^ing, and mag-> 
Hificent about it, to save it from being 
despicable. 

If schools be established at all, let 
them be established to implant in the 
breasts of the children, not avaricious 
selfishness, but the kindness and be- 
nevolence of the New Testament— 
the distinctions between moral right 
and wrong — the fear of the vengeance of 
Heaven for misconduct — ^the convic« 
4ion that they must at last be account- 
able for the deeds of their whole lives, 
not to a human priest, but to an om- 
niscient and unerring Deity. 

Mr M^Culloch asserts that the mo- 
rality of towns is to the full as good as 
the morality of the country, meaning 
by the term morals — ^honesty, and the 
intercourse between the sexes. What 
the case may be in Scotland, we know 
not, but so far as this regards England, 
it is totally at variance with truth, and 
a gross libel upon the village popula- 
tion. 

In our villages, the doors of the sta- 
ble, cow-house, and hog-sty, are rarely 
lociEed during tlie night, the poultry 
is left at large, the barn is very slen- 
derly secured, quantities of valuable 
property are scattered about the farm- 
stead, wholly unprotected, the dwell* 
ings of the cottagers are protected in 
the slightest manner, there is no 
watchman, or police officer of any de- 
scription, the whole of the villagers go 
to bed about the same hour, and are 
buried in the deepest sleep during the 
night, and yet a serious theft is sel- 
dom heard of. If hors^-stealing have 
now reached a great height, be it re- 
membered that it is chiefly carried on 
by the inhabitants of towns, or those 
too: have been taught their villainy in 
towns* When this is contrasted with 
the state of things in towns, what 



credit is due to l^Ir M'CuUdch ? If 
towns were not filled during the night 
with watchmen and police officers, and 
if property were not made as secure as 
bolts and bars can make it, what would 
then be town honesty? As mattera 
are, weigh the knavery of town^ 
against that of the country, and the 
latter will kick the beam. 

So much iox honesty ; and now for 
the intercourse between the sexes. Do 
our villages contain common prosti<* 
tutes ? Do the unmarried men, and 
part of the married ones, of these vil- 
lages, constantly cohabit with such 
prostitutes, like those of towns ? Cer* 
tainly not. In our villages th^e is 
very little intercourse between the 
sexes, save that which is lawful ; in 
each, there are perhaps a couple of 
married women of light character; 
these are constrained to be very cir- 
cumspect in their conduct, and as to 
their acting like common women, it is 
out of the question. What the conduct 
is in towns of the greater part of the 
single men, of no small part of the 
married ones, of a large portion of the 
wives of the lower orders, and of far 
too large a nortion of the female ser- 
vants, toucning this point, we need 
not say. It must be alreadv known to 
those who need infonmttion on the 
matter — to wit, our legislators. 

We are aware that what has been 
said by parishes, with regard to ille- 
gitimate children, has caused certain 
ignorant people to maintain that our 
village females are g^erally unchaste. 
The fact is, that in almost every case 
in which an illegitimate child is born 
in a village, the mother is the victim 
of seduction. In some cases, perhaps, 
the seducer has no great difficulty in 
triumphing, but we believe that in all 
he is compelled to give a solemn pro- 
mise of marriage. He prevails by pro- 
fessing honourable love. Virtue is 
never sold for money. The girl has 
'intercourse with nolle but the seducer, 
and after the child is born she goes 
again to service, and is generally very 
virtuous in her conduct afterwards. 
We defend not such women Jl)ut they 
are not to be confounded with those 
of towns, who, for the sake of money, 
or from sheer depravity, are common 
strumpets. 

In speaking of morals, drunken- 
ness must not be forgotten. Do our 
husbandry labourers spend nearly 
every evening, and the chief part of 



74 Mr M'Cull^Iis 

gar, dried fHiit^ spices, Sec &o. would 
not this employ a mighty number of 
manufacturers, tradesmen, mecltanics, 
Ike. who cannot now exist in Ireland ? 
•Why cannot this peasantry do this 
in an equal degree with the peasantry 
«f Britain ? Look for an answer to 
the per centage agents and middlemen 
— or in other words to absenteeism. 
■ It is said that the depravity and tur- . 
bulenc^ of the Irish p^isanUry prevent 
British capital from establishing ma- 
nufiictures^ &c. in some of the most 
dif tresaed jmrts of Ireland. This de- 
pravity and turbulence must be as- 
cribed in a great degree to the per 
centage agents and middlemen. The 
latter divest the cultivators of capital, 
the land must then of necessity be 
divided into the smallest portions, 
and the cultivators must be poor, ig- 
norant, idle, and without control. 
Look at an English estate. The con- 
4luetof the £DLrroers is constantly under 
the eye and control of the landlord, 
or the agent who acts under his di- 
•rectionis ; the farmers are men of pro- 
perty and respectability, and the con- 
duet of the remainder of the inhabi- 
tants is under their eye and control. 
MTuit is the consequence ? Our vil- 
lage population is kept in the very 
best order without a single salaried 
peace-officer — without a single indi- 
vidual's being regularly employed in 
preserving the peace. Look at tJie Irish 
estate of the Duke of Devonsliire, 
which appears to be managed to a 
great extent af^er the English fashion. 
Ifpon it turbulence and outrage are 
said to be unknown. On this point, 
and with regard to the employnient of 
so great a number of troops, absen- 
teeism is still the great cause. We 
grant the tremendous authority of the 
£!atholic Priests, but nevertheless, a 
landlord can let his land to whom he 
pleases ; he can let it wholly to Pro- 
testants, or to such Catholics only as 
will be peaceable and orderly. 

We will here offer no comment on 
Mr M'ddloch's opinions touching the 
Poor Laws. We promised a Paper on 
these Laws some time since, and our 
promisela yet unperformed, solely be- 
eanae we think such topics possess the 
greatest interest when Parliament is 
assembled; it will not long remain 
unperformed. 

We have only space to touch very 
briefly* on two other parts of the Phi- 
■losopher's evidence. He states that 



Irish Evidence. 

government ought to 
in Ireland, to teach 
principles of religion 
No ! To teach children 
and thirteen '* the elen 
pies which show how 
termined, or on what i 
the poor must depem 
Parliament look at th< 
in Britain and Ireland^ 
cover that in both 
bouring classes are 
with these principles 
weavers of England, 
Scotland, and the gas-i 
— the most uncultivate 
know perfectly, tliat : 
many of them in 
makes wages bad ai 
Several of SieCombin 
and enforced laws 
apprentices and othi 
callings— or, in oth< 
vent labour from 
abundant in these 
ing of such principl 
population can have 
efiect than Combina 
have the doctrines 
and labour had 
classes ? They ha 
make war upon 
bouring man, we 
that, if his wages 
cannot procure emp] 
too many labourers 
but whether he kn 
is a matter of no c 
unless the knowled 
Combination. If he 
this, he can apply no 
evil so far as it affects hi 
tion. We really thin 
necessity whatever for 
establish schools to teac 
classes to form themsel 
binations. 

With regard to teac 
at school, that if they n 
they will do themselve 
— this we think is eqi 
sary. Almost all our 
throughout our laboori 
have this continually 
ears, from their infano]| 
their marriage, by pare 
one else — and they prof 
little. People are imp 
at too early an age, by a 
Political Economy can 
guish nor regulate^l 
which laughs to scorn n 



16 



Mr M'CuUoch's Irish Evidence. 



two whole daj8 in the week 'in addi- 
tion, at the public^house^ like the 
chief part of the labouring classes of 
towns ? No^ they do not expend in. 
public-houses^ one-tenth of the time 
and money which are expended in such 
places by the town working classes. 

The Philosopher asserts, that the 
inhabitants of towns are far more in- 
telligent than those of the country. 
What has been the conduct of such 
of the inhabitants of towns as are of 
the same rank with the inhabitants of 
villages for many of the past years? 
What was this conduct in the days of 
Radicalism — ^in the days of Luddism— 
while the Queen's frenzy raged — ^and 
what has it been during the days of 
Combination ? The answer will suf« 
fice for the refutation of Mr M^Cul- 
]och. He is a perfect stranger to our 
towns^ or a perfect stranger to our vil- 
lages, or he made assertions to the 
committee which he knew to be 
groundless. 

Want of space here compels us, 
against our wishes, to close our re- 
marks on his evidence. We, perhaps, 
should not have noticed it at all, had 
it not been for its tendency to prevent 
the absentee landlords of Ireland from 
doing their duty. That landlord who 
gives up the cultivators of his estate— • 
who perhaps cannot leave it without 
actual starvation — ^into the hands of a 



per centage agents or middleman, to be 
stripped of their little property, fed on 
potatoes, clothed with rags, and plun* 
ged into the lowest abyss of penury, 
and barbarism, — ^that landlord is mo* 
rally guilty of a crime a^nst his spe». 
des and his country, which cannot be 
surpassed in enormity. Compareil 
with him, what evils doe» the oomn^m 
robber, who dies on the gallows^ in- 
flict on individuals and sodety ? He 
who defends this landlord, and pre* 
vents him from changing his conduct^ 
is his accomi^ce in the crime. The 
feeling which now pervades the ooun-» 
try, touching the conduct of the absen* 
tee landlord^, will not, we trust, be 
stifled by the nonsense' of Mr M'Cul- 
loch. We hope it will increase, until 
it force every one of them to take his 
estate under his own management: 
Many of them are now anxious to de 
their duty ; if the remainder shelter 
themselves under the Philosopher^ 
and persevere in their present course, 
we trust that at any rate they will not 
go unpunished. If the laws cannot 
reach men- who consign their fellow* 
creatures, by hundreds and thousands, 
to extortion, oppression, want, and mi* 
sery, the press and public opinion can 
reach them, and we hope that these 
will not be. sparing in imprinting the 
brand, and inflicting the torture. 



■wr 



THE BLOODY BUSINESS. 

From Mansie WaucKs Autobiography/, 

Nay, never shake thy gory locks at me ; 
Thou can*6t not say I did it !-— ilfac^^A. 



It was on a fine summer morning, 
somewhere about four o'clock, when I 
waukened from my night's rest, and 
was about thinking to bestir mysell, 
that I heard the sound of voices in the 
kail-yard, stretching south frae our 
back windows. I listened— ^nd I lis- 
tened — ^and I better listened — and still 
the sound of the argle-bargleing be- 
came more distinct, now in a fleech- 
ing way^ and now in harsh angry 
tones, as if some quarrelsome disagree-- 
ment had ta'en place. I had na the 
comfort of my wife's company in this 
dilemmy ; she being away, three days 
before, on the top of Tammy Trundle 
the carrier's cart, to Lauder, on a vi« 
sit to her folks there; her mother, 
(my gudemother like,) having been 



for some time ill, with an ineome in 
her leg, which threatened to make e 
lamiter of her in her old age ; the twa 
doctors there, no speaking m the black* 
smith, and sundry skeely old women, 
being able to mak naething of the 
business ; so nane ha|^pened to be wi'- 
me in the room, savmg wee fienjie, 
who was lying asleep at the back of 
the bed, with his little Kilmarnock on 
his head, as sound as a top. Never- 
theless, I lookit for my daes ; and, 
opening one half of the window shut* 
ter, I saw four voung birkies, wdl 
dressed, indeed tiiree of them ens* 
tomers of my ain, all belanging to die 
toun ; twa of them young doctors ; ane 
of them a virriter's clerk ; and Uie itfaer 
a grocer ; tjie haill looking y^ fierae 



W2tf.3 



The Bloody Busin€$L 



fr 



and fearsome, like turkey cocks ; swag^ 
gering about ivith their hands a»l 
arms as if they had been the king's 
dragoons ; and priming a pair of pis« 
tols> which ane of the surgeonts, a 
speerity, out- spoken lad, Maister Blis- 
ter, was hadding in his grip. 

I jaloused at ance what they were 
after, being now a wee up to fire- 
arms; so I saw that skaith was to 
come o't ; and that I wad be wanting 
in my duty on four heads, — ^first, as a 
Christian, second, as a man, third, as 
a subject, and fourth, as a father, if I 
withheld mysell frae the scene ; nor 
lifted up my voice, however fruitlessly, 
against such crying iniquity, as the 
wanton letting out of human blood ; 
sae furth I hastened, half dressed, with 
my grey stockings' rolled up my thighs, 
over ray corduroys, and my auld hat 
aboon my cowl, to the kail-yard of 
contention. 

I was just in the nick of time, and 
my presence checked the effusion of 
blood for a little — ^but wait a wee. So 
high and furious were at least tlute of 
the party, that I saw it was catching 
water in a sieve to waste words on 
them, knowing, as clearly as the sun 
serves the world, that interceding 
would be of no avail. Howsomever, 
I made a feint, and threatened to bowl 
away for a magistreet, if they wadna 
desist, and stop from their barbarous 
and bluidy purpose ; but, i'fegs, I had 
better have keepit my counsel till it 
was asked for. 

" Tailor Mansie," ouoth Maister 
Thomas Blister, with a lurious cock of 
his eye ; he was a queer Eirish birkie, 
come owre for his yedication ; '^ since 
ye have ventured to tlirust your nose," 
said he, *' where nobo4y invited ye, 
you must just stay," said he, *' and 
abide by the conseouences. This is 
an affair of honour,' quoth he ; ^^ and 
if ye venture to stir one foot from the 
spot, och then," said he, " by the po- 
ker of St Patrick, but whisk through 
ye goes one of these leaden playthings, 
as sure as ye ever spoiled, a coat, or 
cabbaged broad-doth. Ye have now 
come out, ye observe, hark ye," said 
he, " and are art and part in the busi- 
ness ; — ^and, if one, ox both, of the 
principals be killed, poor devils," said 
ne, '^ we are all alike liable to tike our 
trial before the Justiciary Court, hark 
ye; and, by the powers, ' said he, " I 
doubt not but, on proper considera 
liofij ftluit tbey will allow us to get off 



merciAill;f, on this fdde of hatigingf 
by a vermct of mandatighter." 

Od, I fund mysell immediately in a- 
scrape ; but how to get out of it baf- 
fled my gumption. It set me all a 
shivering ; yet I thought that, come 
the warst when it wad, they surely 
wad not hang the faither of a helpless 
sma family, uiat had naething but his 
needle for their support, if I made a 
proper affidavy, about having tried to 
' make peace between the youths. So, 
conscience being a brave supporter, I 
abode in silence, though not without 
many queer and qualmish thochts, 
and a pit-patting of the heart, no unco 
pleasant in the tholing. 

'' Blood and wounds !" bawled 
Maister Tliomas Blister, '' it would 
be a disgrace for ever on the honour- 
able profession of physic," egging on 
puir Maister Willy Magneesv, whose 
face was as white as double-bleached 
linen, ** to make any apology for such 
an insult. You not fit to doctor a 
cat, — you not fit to bleed a Calf, — you 
not fit to poultice a pig, — after three 
years' apprenticeship," said he, " and 
a winter with Doctor Monro ? By the 
cupping glasses of Pocrates," said he, 
" and by the pistol of Gallon, but I 
would have caned him on the spot, if 
he had just let out half as much to 
me. Look ye, man," said he, *' look 
ye, man, he is all shaking ;" (this was 
a god's truth,) " he'll turn tail. At 
him like fire, Willy." 

Magneesy, though sadly frightened, 
looked a thocht brighter ; and made a 
kind o' half stap forrit. *^ Say that yell 
ask my pardon once more, — and if no," 
said tne puir lad, with a voice broken 
and trembling, ^^ then we must just 
shoot one another." 

" Devil a bit," answered the other^ 
" devil a bit No, sir ; you must 
down on your bare knees, and beg ten 
thousand pardons for calling me out 
here, in a raw morning ; or I'll have 
a shot at you, whether you will or 
no." 

" Will you stand that ?" said Blis- 
ter, with eyes like burning coals. ** By 
the living jingo, and the holy poker, 
Magneesy, if you stand that—if yon 
stand that, I say, I stand no longer 
your second, but leave you to ois-i 
grace, and a caning. If he likes to 
shoot you like a dog, and not as a 
gentleman, then his will be done." 

"No, sir," replied Magneesy, with 
a quiyering voice, which, he tried in 



w 



78 

vain, puir fellow, to render warlike, 
(he nad never b€«n in the volunteers 
like me.) " Hand us the pistols 
then ; and let us do or die V 

" Spoken like a hero, and brother 
of the lancet : as little afraid at the 
sight of your own blood, as at that of 
otner people ;" said Blister. '^ Hand 
ov«r tne pistols." 

It was an awfu' business. Gude 
save us, such goings on in a christian 
land ! While Mr Bloatsheet, the 
young writer, was in the act of doing 
what he was bid, I again, but to no 
purpose, endeavoured to slip in a word 
edgeways. Magneesy was in an awfu' 
case ; if he had been already shot, he 
could not have looked mair day and 
corpse-like ; so I took a kind of whis- 
penng, while the stramash was draw- 
ing to a bloody conclusion, with Mais* 
ter Harry Molasses, the fourth in the 
spree, who was standing behind Bloat* 
sneet, with a large mahogany box 
under his arm, something in shape 
like that of a licensed packman, gang- 
ing about frae house to house, through 
the country-side, selling toys and trin- 
kets ; or nifiering plaited ear-rings and 
sic like, wi' young lasses, for auld sil- 
ver coins, or cracked rea-spoons. 

" Oh !" answered he very compo« 
sedly, as if it had been a caunister fu' 
of black-rappee, or blackguard, that 
he had just lifted down from his tap- 
shelf, " it's just Doctor Blister's saws, 
whittles, and big knives, in case ony 
of their Ipgs or arms be blawn away, 
that he may cut them off," Little 
wad have prevented me sinking down 
through tne ground, had I not re- 
membered, at the preceese moment, 
that I myself was a soldier, and liable, 
when the hour of danger threatened, nevertheless, I trust the visibility od 



The Bidodt^ Biuineti 

the pistols like lightning ; and, as aoou 
as I got my hands ta'en from myeen, 
and looked about, wae's mc, I saw 
Magneesy clap his hand to his brow^' 
wheel round like a pierie, or a sheep 
seized wi the isturdie, and then'tday: 
flap down on his braidside, breakings 
the necks of half a dozen cabbage- 
stocks, three of which were afterwanU- 
clean lost, as we couldna pit them all 
into the pat at ae time. The haill o' 
us ran forrit, but foremost was Bloat-- 
sheet, who, seizing Magneesy by the 
hand, said, wi' a mournfiil face, ^' I. 
hope you forgive me ? only say this as- 
long as you nave breath ; for I am oflT 
to Leith harbour in half a minute." 

The bluid was rinning ova: puir 
Magneesy 's een, and drib^ diibbliiig- 
frae the neb o' his nose, so he was 
truly in a pitiful state; but he said' 
witn more strength than I thocht he 
could have mustered, — " Yes, yesy 
fly for your life. I am dying without 
much pain — fly for your life, for I am* 
a gone man !" 

Bloatsheet bounced tlirough the \Al 
kail-yard like a maukin, damb ower 
the bit wa, and aff like mad ; while 
Blister was feeling Magnees/s poise 
with ane hand, and looking at his doo* 
tor's watch, which he had m the ither. 
'< Do ye think that the puir lad will 
live, doctor ?" said J till nim. 

He gave his head a wise sha):e, and* 
only observed, " I dare'say, it will be 
a hanging business amaiig us. In 
what direction do you think, Mansiei 
we should all take flight ?" 

But I answered bravely, *' Flee 
them that will, I'se flee nane. If I 
am ta'en prisoner, the town-oflicers 
maun take me frae my ain house ; but^ 



to be called out, in marching-order, 
to the field of battle. Butby tnis time 
the pistols were handed to the two in- 
fatuated young men, Mr Bloatsheet, 
as fierce as a hussar dragoon, and Mag- 
nedsy as supple ia the knees as if he 



my innocence will be as plain 4S a 
pikestaff to the een of the fifteen !" . 
'' What then, Mansie, will we dft 
with poor Magneesy ? Give us yoop 
advice in need." 

Let us carry him down to my ain 



€( 



was all on oiled hinges ; so the next bed," answered I ; '^ I wad not deseit 

consideration was to get weel out of a fellow-creature in his dying hour I 

Jthe way, the lookers-on running near- Help me down wi' him, and then flee 

ly as great a chance of being shot as the country as fast as you arts able !" 

the principals, they no being accus- We immediately proceeded, ancl 

tomed, like me, for instance, to the lifted the poor lad, whae had now 

use of arms; on which account, I dwammed away, upon our wife's haiid^ 

scouged mysell behind a big pear- -barrow — ^Blister tiudng the feet^ and 

tree ; baith being to fire when Blister me the oxters, whereby X ffot my 

gied the word ^ Off*!" waistcoat a' japanned wrd^Kh3dt.in>. 

I had hardly jouged into my hidy- when we got him kid rt^^wd^^UfBrn 

hole, when *' crack-«-<rack" played ceeded to carry him bet WesQiiwwiir 



18960 



The Bloody Business. 



79 



the doss, just as if he had heen a 
stickit sheep^ and in at the back door^ 
which cost . us some trouble, being 
iharrow, and the barrow getting jam- 
incd in ; but^ at lang and last^ we got 
hitn striekcd out aboon the blankets, 
having previously shooken Benjie, and 
waukened him out of his moming^s 
nap. 

A' this being accompHshed, and 
got ower. Blister decamped, leaving 
me my lievinjg lane, excepting Benjie, 
wha was next to naebody, in the house 
with th^ deeing man. A^at a frightfu' 
face he had, all smeared over with 
bluid and pouther — and I really ja- 
loused, that if he deed in that room, 
•it wad be haunted for ever mair,.he 
being in a manner a murdered man, so 
that, even should I be acquitted of 
art and pairt, his ghaist might still 
come to bother us, making our house 
a hell upon yearth, and frighting us 
out of our seven senses. But, in the 
midst of my dreadful surmeeses, when 
all was still, so that you might have 
heard a pin fall, a knock, knock, 
Jknock, cam to the door, on which, 
coming to my senses, I dreaded first 
that it was the death-chap, and sync 
that the affair had gotten wind, and 
that it was the beagles come in 
search of me ; so I kissed little Benjie, 
wha was sitting on his creepie, blub- 
bering and greeting for his parritch, 
while a tear stood in my ain ee, as I 
■gaed forrit to lift the sneck, to let the 
officers, a» I thocht, harrie our house, 
by carrying aff me, its master ; but it 
was, thank heevan, only Tammy Bod- 
kin, coming in whistling to his wark, 
with some measuring-papers hinging 
round his neck. 

'* Ah, Tammy," said I to him, my 
heart warming at a kent face, and 
making the laddie, although my 
bounden servant by a regular inden- 
ture of five years, a fWend in my need, 
^' come in, my man. I fear ye'U hae 
to take charge of the busiuessfbr dome 
time to come ; mind what I tell'd ye 
about the sluiping and the' cutting, 
and no making the gase ower warm, 
aa I doubt I am about to be faarled 
awa to the tolbooth." 

Tammy's heart latro to his month. 
" Ay, nlaister," he said, '^yere joldng. 
Whst should ye have- done ttiat ye 
-should be ta'en to sic an ill place ?" 

'* Ayy Tammy, lad," answered I, 
" it IB but ower true." — " Wed, weel," 
quo' Tammy — I really thought it a 



great deal of the laddie—" weel, weel, 
they cann& prevent me comins to sew 
beside ye ; ami, if I can tike the mea- 
sure of customers without, ye can cut 
the claith within. But what is't for^ 
maister ?" 

" Come in here," said I to him, 
" and believe your ain een. Tammy, 
my man." 

*' Losh me !" cried the puir laddie^, 
glowring at the bluidy face* of the 
man in the, bed. " Ay-»-ay — ay ! 
maister ; save us, maister ; ay-*— ay- 
ay — you have na clowred his ham« 
pan wi* the goose ? Ay, maister, mais« 
ter ! whaten an unyearthly sight ! ! 
I doubt they'll hang us a' ; you for 
doing't— and me on suspicion— and 
Benjie as art and part, puir thing. 
But I'll rin for a doctor. Will I, 
maister ?" 

The thocht had never stitick me be^ 
fore, being in a sort of a manner diii^ 
stupid ; but catching up the word, I 
said wi' all my pith and birr, " Rin, 
rin, Tammy, rin for life and death !" 

But Tammy bolted like a nine-year- 
auld, never looking behint his tail: 
so, in less than ten minutes, he re- 
turned, hauling alang auld Doctol: 
Gripes, wh^m he had waukened ottt 
o' his bed, by the lug and horn, at 
the very time I was trying to quiet 
young l^en^ie, wha v^ras following me 
up and down the house, as I was pa- 
cing to and fro in distraction, girning 
and whinging for his breakfast. 

'* Bad business, bad business ; bless 
us, what is this ?" said the auld Do<^- 
tor, staring at Magneesy's bluidy face 
through his silver spectacles—** What's 
the matter?" 

The puir patient knew at ance his 
maister s tongue, and, lifting iip atie 
of his eyes, the other being stifr and 
barkened down, said in a melancholy 
voice, '* Ay, master, do ye think ni 
get better?*^ 

Doctor Gripes, auld mafUashe was, 
started back, as if he had been a 
French dancing-master, or had stram- 
pit on a het bar of iron. *^ Tom, Tom, 
18 this you ? what, in the name of won- 
der, has done this?" Then feefinghis 
wrist— •" but your pulse is qiiite good. 
Have you fallen, boy ? Where is ^e 
blood cbming firom ?" 

'* Somewhere about the hairy soau^>" 
amswered Magneesy, in their own sort 
of lingo. '* I doubt some aftar'tf cot 
through ?' 

The Doctor immediately bade hifn 



80 
1. 



7%€ Bloodif Business. 



Vm\. 



ie quiet^ and hush^ as he was getting 
B needle and silken thread ready to 
sew it up ; ordering mc to get a ba- 
son and water ready^ to wash the puir 
lad's phys(^. I did so as hard as I 
was able, though I was na sure aboot 
the bluid just ; auld Dr Gripes watch- 
ing ower my shouther^ wi' a lighted 
penny candle in ae hand^ and the 
needle and thread in the ither^ to see 
where the bluid spouted frae. But 
we were as daft as wise ; so he bade 
me tak my big sheer^^ and cut out a' 
the hair on the fore part of the head 
as bare as my loof ; and syne we wash- 
ed^ and better washed ; so Magiieesy 
got the ither ee up^ when the barken- 
ed bluid was loosed, looking, though 
as pale as a clean shirt, mair frighted 
than hurt ; until it became as plain 
as pease to us all, first to the Doctor, 
syne to me, and syne to Tammy Bod- 
lun, and last of a' to Magneesy J^im- 
sell, that his skin was na sae much as 
peeled ; so we helped him out of the 
bed, and blithe was I to see the lad 
standing on the floor^ without a baud, 
on his ain feet* 

I did my best to clean his neckcloth 
and sark-neck of the bluid, making 
him look as dacentish as possible, con- 
aidering circumstances; and lending 
him, as the Scripture commands, my 
tartan maud to nide the infirmity of 
}iis bluidy breeks and waistcoat ; 
hame gaed he and his maister thegi- 
ther, me standing at our closs moudi, 
wishing them a guid morning, and 
blithe to see their backs. Indeed, a 



condenined thief with th« rope about 
his neck, and the white cowl tied ower 
his een, to say naethins of his hands 
jerked thegither behind his back^ and 
on the nick of being thrown ower> 
couldna have been mair thankfu for a 
reprieve than I was, at that same 
blessed moment. It was like Adam 
seeing the deil's rear marching out o' 
Paradise, if ane may be allowed to 
think sic a thing. 

The haill business, tag, rag, and 
bob-tail, soon, however, spunkit out, 
and was the town talk for mair than 
ae day. But ye'll hear. 

At the first I pitied the puir laida, 
that I thocht had fled for ever and 
aye from their native country, to ^ea•• 
gal, Seringa^tam, Botany Bay, or Ja- 
maica ; leaving behint them idl theur 
friends and auld Scotland, as. they 
might never hear o' the gudeness o£ 
Providence in their behalf. Bat*^ 
wait a wee. 

Wad ve believe it ? As sure's death, 
the haill was but a wicked trick played 
by that mischeevous loon Blister and 
his cronies, upon ane that was a sim« 

Ele and saft-neaded callant. Deil a 
aet was in the ae pistol but a pliiff 
o' pouther ; and, in the ittter,, a car- 
tridge paper fii' o' bull's blood was 
rammed down upon the charge, the 
which, hitting Magneesy on me ee- 
bree, had caused a business, that seem- 
ed to have putten him out o' life, and 
nearly pat me (though ane of the vo- 
lunteers) out of my seven senses. 



CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 



When four young maidens, all 
beautiful as angels, come floating in, 
wreathed arm in arm, beneath the 
hig}i-arched door of a drawing-room, 
where you are sitting on an Ottoman 
in romantic reverie, how starts the 
dreamer to his feet at the instanta- 
neous Apparition ! The efiect, at first, 
is as of a single overpowering counte- 
nance — a combination of the four into 
one— the magic of a mysterious Mo- 
nad. Eyes, noses, cheelcs, lips breathe 
love ana delight, smiles and kisses- 



even as if the garland were bat one 
flower, the galaxy but one star. It is 
but one fair cloud illuminated by the 
sunlight— a holy glee of ibor voices, 
but one harmony ! Christopher North 
supports himseu on his crutch, and 
bends down before the undistingoish- 
able glory. His senses, his imagina- 
tion, his reason are bewildered — all is 
bright dazzling confusion before the 
old man's eyes — and you may count 
the very beatings of his iieart. As the 
divine rustling of silks and satins i^ 



* 1. Literary Souvenir; or, Cabinet of Poetry and Romance. £dited by Ahuic 
A. Watts. London. Hurst, Robinson, and Co. 1826L — 2. The Amulet ; or. Chris- 
tian and Literary Remembrancer. London. William Baynes and Son. 1^86b— >& 
Forget me Not, a Christmas and New Year's Present for 1826. London* B* Aekar- 
mann. 1826. — 4. Friendship's Offering ; or, a Literary Album. Edited bfiUNOflMV 
K. Hervey. London. Lupton Relfe, 13, Comhill. 1826. ^ ',£xv. 

13 ^ 



^96.2 



Christmas Gifts* 



81 



•][>rosdie8^ he cbHects his %randering 
thoughts^ and gaping with incipient 
disMfmination^ he chuckles to ob« 
■setve that they are not angels — not 
goddesses^ bat four young flesh-and- 
blood misses^ each in her way prettier 
than her pretty mama, a Forget-me« 
Not, a Friendship's Offering, a Lite- 
rary Souvenir, a Christian Remem- 
brancer. 

. Now, we know not how we could 
better have expressed our satisfaction 
on beholding the entree into our Sanc- 
tum Sanctorum of these Four Bloom- 
ing Perennials. They are all jewels 
—-delights — ^perfect loves. How hap- 
py can we be with either — ^not were 
the other dear charmer away*-but 
were they merely lying asleep for a 
season on our capacious table ! Sweet 
creatures ! we are in love with you all, 
nor perhaps would it be gallant to de- 
clare a preference. Each becomes Sul- 
tana in her turn— according to the 
ipovements of that most capricious of 
all passions — custom cannot stale your 
infinite variety — and we swear to be 
£uthful to you during the period of 
our natural lives, in all the innocent 
affection of Platonic polygamy. 

There was a clever paper in our last 
Number upon Metaphors, showing, 
thkt broken Metaphors (like other 
bankrupts) always make the best fi- 
gure. We are availing ourselves of 
that (excellent doctrine, and extending 
its principle to composition in general. 
We have spoken first of angels, we 
think — then of pretty girls — and now, 
still meaning the same thing, we use 
the common word, volumes — volumes 
— twelve shillings, half bound or in 
boards— embellished with engravings 
from pictures by th6 first masters, and 
the letter-press furnished by forty of 
the best poets of the age. 
^ Now what is there to hinder a fero- 
-dons, sha^y-eye-browed Aristarchus 
of an editor or contributor to frighten 
off with a single frown all these four 
virgin volumes ? It cannot be denied 
that their contents are extremely tri- 
fling—not to be weighed for a single 
moment, against tlie article Steam 
Engine in any Encyclopsedia, or the 
Stot's Principles of Political Economy. 
It would be rash to assert that the 
state of mankind — ^nay even of Europe, 
will be widely, deeply, or permanently 
afieqjkedl hj the publication of these 
amuial periodicals. In half a century 
tbey may even be generally forgot- 

Vot. XIX. 



ten — ^but who cares, if they are all 
perused or looked at with pleasures 
now ? Of all prospects, that of the 
frtture is surely the most uninter- 
esting. The present for our money, 
afad the more it is embellished the bet- 
ter, for it ridily deserves cuts. None 
but ninnies look into futurity, and what 
thanks will they get for their pains ? 
Why not a creature bom ten years hence 
will ever so much as condescend to 
know that they ever existed. Should 
it so happen that some one of the 
Paulo-post-futurum gentry should lay 
his hand on an author who ap- 
pealed to posterity, can there be a 
doubt that he wUl break out into 
a horse-laugh, and ask if the idiot 
could have believed in his heart that 
children were wiser than their fa- 
thers ? Show us an instance ip^ ai^ re- 
spectable gentleman, pa^fS^gg^muster- 
as a blockhead all his cjWnnfetime, 
and imposing on posterity as a first- 
rate fellow. — No, it won't do. — Once a 
dunce, always a duftce. If a literary 
man, a genius, cannot hold up his 
head above water, but suffers it to be 
kept under for the short space of twen- 
ty minutes, not all the Humane Socie- 
ties on earth will resuscitate him. We 
shall suppose that he has been found 
drowned, and he must be buried under 
a plain slab. But get a name — a title 
from your coiitemporanes, however 
small, be it even that of Count Tims, 
and you are immortal. — ^Tims will be 
triumphant over Time. Saturn wDl 
in vain try to devour him — ^long after 
he has made no bones of Wordsworth, 
and all those other wiseacres who put 
their trust in posterity. 

Where were we ? Let us see. Ay, . 
the Literary Souvenir ; or. Cabinet of 
Poetry and Romance, editcid by Alaric 
A. Watts. Six thousand copies, he 
tells us, of last year's volume have been 
sold, and we can easily' believe it. Our 
own article upon it could not do less 
than introduce it into a thousand bou-* 
doirs. This year there is no falling 
off; on the contrary, the tree has come 
to its full bearing, and the fruit is of 
brighter hue and richer flavour. That 
palate would be indeed fastidious that 
could not relish such a dessert. It is a 
failing of ours to get drowsy after din- 
ner, especially in the heat of a Christ- 
mas fire; but with this awakening 
volume spread fan-like before our 
eyes, they retain all their usual lustre 
throughout the evening. What delici- 



82 



Ckrisimas Gifts. 



CJan 



0U8 engravingB ! Only look at The Lo- 
vers' Quarrel ! Havens and earth, 
quan'el with such a bright, breathing, 
and beautiful bosom ! Where may 
you seek for calm beneath the skies^ 
if it sleep not between these tranquil 
billows ? There is the luxury of love, 
hallowed by its innocence ! — a table 
spread in Paradise, to be deserted for 
the fare of the common earth ! — Or lo ! 
the " Forsaken" smiles faintly at her 
own credulity, and the evaporation of 
her lover's sigh ! The dream is gone, 
and the languor of its delight hangs 
all over the maiden's face and frame. 
But sorely mistaken indeed art thou, 
•O fair L. E. L., in murmuring for 
such a Juliet, such a strain as, 
" Forget me— I would not have thee 

know 
Of the youth and bloom thy falseness laid 

low; 
Tliat the green grass grows, the cypresses 

wave, 
And the death-stone lies on thy once 

love's grave !" 
Never was there a more needless 
waste of sympathetic sorrow; for with- 
in three months after she sat to Mr 
Newton for her picture, did she, the 
'* Forsaken," elope to Gretna-Green 
with a particular friend of ODoherty's, 
and before the year had expired, was 
she safely delivered of twins. Noto- 
rious facts like these rob fiction of half 
its pathos ; nor is it possible to shed 
tears over youth and beauty brought 
to-bed under such circumstances. 
Should L. £. L. introduce into a fu- 
ture Souvenir the ^' Forsaken" as a 
widow, let her remember that weeds 
are mere annuals, and entitle her epi- 
thalamium (or^ as that accomplish- 
ed scholar, the late Dr Pirie, would 
have said, epicedium) *' A Year and 
a Day." • 

The "Kiss," drawn by J.M.Wright, 
after Retch, (fee his illustrations of 
Goethe's Faust,) is, if possible, still 
more charming — fond and impassion- 
ed, but perfectly chaste and pure, and 
not to be gazed on, without delight, 
by man of woman born. While Lady 
Louisa' Jane Russell, youngest daugh- 
ter of his Grace the Duke of Bedford, 
from the statue of Chantry at Woburn 
Abbey, calms the spirit with a far dif- 
ferent image— that of childish delight 
and love — as the fair creation stands^ 
unadorned and innocent as an infant, 
and presses with both gentle hands a 
dove to her sinless bosom. 



But we must turn to the poetry. 
And here it gives us pleasure to pre^ 
sent our readers with one of the very 
best compositions in the volume^ from 
the pen of the editor :— • 

THE PO£T*S DEN, 

A Sketch on the ^t. 

Thut, in this calm retreat, so richly fraiight 
With mental light, and luxury of thought, ^ 
Hia life steals on. 

ROOERS. 

•Tis the "leafy.month of June," 

And the pale and placid moon, 

In the east her cresset rearing, 

Tells that summer's eve is wearing ;— 

But the sun is lingering still 

0*er the old, accustom*d hill, 

And condenses all his rays 

In one broad, attemper'd blaze,— 

Twilight's shadows deepening *round him, 

Like a king when foes surround him, 

Gathering, since he scorns to fly* 

Life's last energies to die ! 

See ! the parting god of day 
Leaves a trail upon his way,—- 
Like the memory of the dead 
When the sainted soul is fled,— 
And it chequers all the skies 
With its bright, innumerous dyes. , 
Waves of clouds, all rich and glowing, .\ 
Each into the other flowing, 
Pierced by many a crimson streak, . 
Like the blush on Beauty's cheek ; 
Here and there dark purple tinges 
Peering through their sa^ron fringes, 
(Amethysts of price untold, 
Set in shrines of virgin gold,} 
And, anon, a dewy star. 
Twinkling from blue depths afar. 
Bright as Woman's tearful eye 
When she weeps, she scarce knows why. 
Not a sound disturbs the hush, 
Save the mountain-torrent's gush, 
As it struggles, with a bound. 
From the deptli of shades profound ; ' , 
Now through tangled brush- wood sitniy- 

ing, 
Now o'er velvet moss dela3ring, 
Lapsing now in parted streams, 
Like a youthful poet's dreams, 
And, anon, their haven won, 
Gently gliding into one ! « . 

Cooling breezes bathe the brow 
With delicious fragrance now ; 
Incense sweet from many a bower ; 
Odours from each closing flower ; 
Swell upon the rising gale. 
On the charmed sense prevail. 
Till the pulse forgets to move. 
And the soul is " drunk with love f ** 



1«26.3 



Chmtmas Gifts. 



83 



Where yon sweet clematis flings, 
Tpi and wide, its starry rings ; 
Where the graceful jasmine's braid, 
Makes a. green, eye-soothing shade, 
'And their shoots united rove 
O'er the trelliced roof above, — 
Deep embower'd from tnortal ken, 
Thread we now a Fo^'s Den ! 

Bright confusion revels there, 
Ne*er had she a realm more fair ; 
*Tis a wilderness of mind. 
Redolent of tastes refined. 
Tomes of wild romantic lore, 
Cuird from Fancy's brightest store,— 
(Caskets full of gems sublime. 
From the silent depths of Time,) 
Poets, whose conceptions high 
Are sparka of immortality ; 
Sages, Wisdom's self hath crown 'dj 
People all the walls around ; 
Or beneath the 'wilder'd eye, 
In ** admired disorder " lie 
tngots rich of Fancy's ore. 
Scattered o'er the crowded floor. 

Mystic scraps are strewn around, 
Like the oracles profound 
Of the Delphic prophetess; 
And — as difficult to guess !— 
China vases, filled with flowers. 
Fresh from evening's dewy bowers ; 
Love-gifts from his lady fair. 
Knots of ribbon, locks of hair ; 
Sprigs of myrtle, sent;, to keep 
Memory from too sound a sleep ; 
Violets, blue as are the eyes 
That awake his softest sighs, 
And reward his love-sick lays 
With their smiles of more tiian praise ; 
Spells of sweetness, gather'd 'round. 
Make those precincts hallow'd ground ! 

Here a broken, stringless lute ; 
There a masker's antic suit ; 
Fencing foils ; a Moorish brand ; 
Tokens strange from many a land ; 
Memory's lights to many a scene 
Where his roving steps have been ; 
Cameos rich, from mighty Rome ; 
Laurel wreathes from "S^gil's tomb ; 
Golden fruit from Scio's vine ; 
Views along the winding Rhine ; 
Wither'd shrubs from Castaly, 
Spread below, or ranged on high, 
Mingle there promiscuously ! 
And many a fair and sunny face. 
Many a sculptured shape of grace, 
Such as Guido's pencil warqi'd, 
And Canova's chisel form'd,— 
Brows by deathless genius crown'd,— * 
Breathe their inspiration 'round ; 
Like the smile of primal Light, 
Making even Chaos bright. 



By the open lattice sitting, 
Fever'd streams of beauty flitting ' 
O'er his heart, and o'er his brain. 
In one bright, unbroken chain ; 
Drinking deep through every sense. 
Draughts of pleasure, too intense,— 
Mark the poet's glistening eye 
Wandering now o'er earth and sky ! 

'Tis a blissful hour to him,— - 
Slave of feeling— child of whim !— > 
Builder of the lofty rhyme,— 
Bard,— musician,— painter,— mime ; 
Ever sway'd by impulse strong. 
Each by tums^ and nothing long : 
Fickle as the changing rays 
Round the sun's descending blaze ; 
Still in search of idle toys ; 
Pining after fancied joys ; 
All that charm'd his heart or eye. 
Sought — possess'd— and then thrown by ! 
Doom'd on shadows thus to brood. 
Whilst life's more substantial good. 
All that wiser bosoms prize, f 
Fades like day from yonder skies ! 

There is much fancy of thought and 
elegance of expression in the ^^ Ode to 
a Steam«Boat/ byT. Doubleday, Esq. 

ODE TO A STEAM-BOAT. 

On such an eve, perchance, as this, 
When not a zephyr skims the deep. 
And sea-birds rest upon the abyss. 
Scarce by its heaving rocked to sleeps—* 
• On such an eve as this, perchance. 
Might Scylla eye the blue expanse. 

The languid ocean scarce at all 
Amongst the sparkling pebbles hisshig— 
The lucid wavelets, as they fall. 
The sunny beach in whispers kissuig, 
Leave not a furrow— 4S tiiey say 
Oft haps, when pleasure ebbs away. 

Full many a broad but delicate tint 
Is spread upon the liquid plain ; 
Hues rich as aught from fancy's mint, 
Enamell'd meads, or golden grain ;— 
Flowers submarine, or purple heath. 
Are mircor'd from the world beneatlK 

One tiny star-beam, &intly trembling. 
Gems the still waters* tranquil breast ; 
Mark the dim spairldet, so resembling 
Its parent in the shadowing east ;— 
It seems— so pure, so bright the trace'— 
As sea and sky had changed their place. 

Hush'd is the loud tongue of the deep :— 
Yon glittering sail, for o'er the tide. 
Amid its course appears to sleep ; 
We watch, but only know it glide 
Still on, by a bright track aiiEir, 
Like genius, or a falling star ! 



84 



Chrittmas O^fU* 



uT**r' 



Oh ! such an eve is son*ow*s balm. 
Yon lake the poet*s Hippocrene : 
And who would ruffle such a calm. 
Or cast a cloud o'er such a scene ! 
'Tie done !— -and nature weeps thereati 
Thou boisterous progeny of Watt ! 

Wast thou a grampus, nay, a whale. 
Or ork one sees in Ariosto : 
Went*st thou by rudder, oar, or sail. 
Still would*st thou not so outrage gusto I 
But when did gusto ever dream 
Of seeing ships propelled by steam ? 

Now blazing like a dozen comets. 
And rushing as if nought could bind thee, 
The while thy strange internal vomits 
A sooty train of smoke behind thee ; 
Tearing along the azure vast, 
With a great chimney for a mast ! 

Satan, when scheming to betray us, 
He left of old his dark dominions, 
And wing*4 his murky way through Chaosy 
And waved o*er Paradise his pmions ; 
Whilst Death and Sin came at his back, 
Would leave, methinks, just such a track. 

Was there no quirk,-— one can't tell 

how,— 
No stiff-necked flaw— no quiddit latent, 
Thou worst of all sea-monsters thou ! 
That might have undermined thy pa* 

tent, 
Or kept it in the inventor's desk- 
Fell bane of all that's picturesque ? 

Should Neptune in his turn invade thee. 
And at a pinch old Vulcan fail thee, 
Tlie sooty mechanist who made thee 
May hold it duty to bewail thee :^ 
But I shall bring a garland votive. 
Thou execrable locomotive ! 

He must be long-tongued, with a wit- 
ness. 
Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion, 
It sorts with universal fitness 
To make yon clear, pellucid ocean. 
That holds not one polluted drop, 
Bear on its breast a blacksmith's shop# 

Philosophers may talk of science. 
And mechanicians of utility ; 
In such I have but faint reliance : 
To admire thee passeth my ability ; 



My taste is left at double dittence^ 
At the first sea-qmke of thy piftOBS. 

It may be orthodox alid wise. 
And catholic, and transcendeataly 
To the useful still to 8acrifice» 
Without a sigh, the ornamental ; 
But be it granted me, at least. 
That I may never be the priest ! 

Magazines, newspapers^ reviews^ 
have teemed^ do teem, and will teem^ 
with extracts from Mr Watts's lite- 
rary Souvenir. We have giyen these 
two poems^ both for their own great 
merits and because we have nowhere 
seen them quoted. We should sup- 
pose there are not fewer than eighty 
articles in the volume^ in prose and 
yex^ — not many of them below medi« 
ocrity — ^mostjof them extremely good, 
and a few of first-rate excellence. The 
volume is indeed everything that it 
ought to be in composition and in em« 
bellishment.* 

The ^'Amulet, or Christian and Lite- 
rary Remembrancer," is of a somewhat 
different character from the others^ihaV'^ 
ing more of a religious spirit. The 
editor explains his views very judici-* 
ously in a well-written preface :— 

^ It has appeared to the publishers of 
the present volume, that a work which 
should blend religious instraction with li-« 
terary amusement was still a deadertOum t 
—for the infiuence of Religion is always 
most powerful when she is made to de- 
light those whom it is her office to teach ; 
and many, who would perhaps shun her 
in the severer garb in which she some- 
times appears, may be won to her side 
by the attractions of a more tasteful at- 
tire. The work, however, is to be consi- 
dered as a religious publication only so 
far as that every article tends to impress 
some moral lesson. It depends for its 
success equally on its literary merits. 
The nature of the contributions, and the 
excellence of the embellishments, will 
sufficiently prove that no expense has 
been spared to render the volume worthy 
of the advanced state of literature and 
the arts. .^ 

'* It will be at once perceived, that in- 
dividuals of various religious denomina- 
tions are among the contributors. This 



* But who wrote the story to accompany Newton's Lovers' Quarrel? The 
Monthly Review is mad, or rather Idiotic upon it — ^lauding it to the skies as if it 
were absolutely a Tale written by some Great Unknown. Now we pledge our cri- 
tical character on the truth of the following sentence :— *^ It is a piece of vile cock- 
ney slang, sufficient to turn the stomach of a horse.*'— -CL N. 



1996.3 



CMitnuu Gift9. 



a« 



will be aoecpted at a plttd^» that all en- 
trance on Um debateable gnmnd of theo- 
logy baa been carefully avoided. Nothinf , 
it is believed, will occiir» either to dis- 
turb the opinioDSy or to ahock the prejik> 
dices of any Christian : the editor, there- 
fore, indulges a sanguine hope that the 
volume will prove generally acceptable.'* 



It Is long ainoe wt haT« read any- 
thing more beautiftil than the follow- 
ing ]^m by Mrs Hemans. The en<- 
mying by Charlea Heath, finom a 
drawing of Weatall's, (a beautiful 
work of art^) and the poem, deiigbU 
fully Uluatrate each otner :— 



THE HBIUW iCOTHSft. 

The roee was in rich bloom on Sharon's pkun. 
When a young mother, with her First-born, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 
Unto this TemplMervice. By the hand 
She led hkn^ and her aileat soul, the while, ^ 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his e^e 
Met her sweet serions ghmce, rejoiced to think 
Hmt aught so pare^ so beantifuly was hers, 
To bring before her QoL 

So pa$s*d they on, 
O'er Jndah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made soonds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-booghs. 
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she passed, that he might rest ; 
Yet from her own meek evelids chased the sleep 
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his check's repose. 
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades^ 
Making its banks green gems along the wild. 
There too she linger'd^ from the dkunond wave 
Drawing clear water Ibr his rosy lips, 
And softly partng ehiiters of jet curie 
To bathe his brow. 

At last the Fane was reach'd, 
TIm earth's One Sanctuary ; and rapture hush'd 
Her bosono, as befbre her, through the day 
It rose, a mountain of wliite marble, steep'd 
In light like floating gold.— But when that hour 
Waned to the Csrewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, 
Tam'd from the white-iob'd priest, and round her arm 
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then awell'd high ; and o'er her child 
Bendbng, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad eong— ** AUs!" she cried, 

** Alas, my boy ! thy gentle gnup is on me. 
The bright tears quiver In thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arisen 
And silver cords again to e&rth have won me. 
And like a viae thou claspest my full heart- 
How shall I hence depart ?-— 

Hew the kwe paths retrace, where thou wert playing 
60 late along the mountains at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowen my course dekiying, 
Wove^ e'en as pearls» the lilies round thy hair^ 

Beholding thee so fiiir ! 



•0 Christmas Gifts. t^UL 

And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath imrtod ! 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Tiirn*d from its door away, 
While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me stilly 

Went like a singing rill ? 

Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me^ 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

Witli the full water urn ! 
Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me, 
As midst the silence of the stars I wake, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 

And thou, — will slumber's dewy cloud £Edl round thee 
Without thy mother's hand tq smooth thy bed ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee. 
To fold my neck ; and lift up, in thy fear, 

A cry which none shall hear? 

What have I said, my child ? — wUl He not hear thee. 
Who the young ravens hearetb from their nest ? 

Will He not guard thy rest, 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams witli joy ? 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy j 

I give thee to thy God !— the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee. 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child! 

Therefore, farewell ! — I go ; my soul may fail me, 
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks. 

Yearning for thy sweet looks ! 
But thou, my First-born ! droop not, nor bewail me, 
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, , 

The Rock of Strength^fiEurewell !" 

We cannot refrain from quoting another poem by the same distinguished 
writer. It has something sublime :«- 



THE TRUMPET. 

The Trumpet's voice hath roused the 
land. 

Light up the beacon-pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand. 

And waved the sign of fire ! 
A hundred banners to tlie breeze 
_ Their gorgeous folds have cast. 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas? 

A king to war went past ! 

The chief is arming in his hall. 
The peasant by his hearth ; 



The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth ! 
The mother on her first-bom son 

Looks with a boding eye ;— 
They come not back, though all be won. 

Whose young hearts leap ^o high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crown'd. 

The lover quits his bride ! 
And all this haste, and change, and fear. 

By earthly clarion spread ! 
How will it be when jringdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead? 



We do not remember to have seen before the name of the writer of the 
verses^ entitled '^ Emblems." Th6y are written with much feeling, and may 
be said to be even beautiful :— 



\smr\ 



Ckriitmas Gifts. 



9f 



EMBLEMS. 



Sjf tlie Reu, Henry Stebbing* 



There lb a freshness in the air, 

A brightness in the sky, 
As if a new4)orn sun was there, 

Just seraph- throned on high ; 
And birds, and flowers, and mountain- 
streams. 
Rejoicing in his infant beams. 
Are glad as if the Winter's breath 
Had never blowp the blast of death. 

Softly along the silent sea 
The light-wingM breezes creep. 

So low, so calm, so tranquilly. 
They lull the waves asleep ; 

And, oh ! as gladly on the tide 

Yon lofty vessel seems to rid^. 

As if the calmly-heaving sail 

Had never met a sterner gate. 

And in a small, sweet covert nigh. 
Her own young hands have made, 

A rosy girl hath laughingly 
Her infant brother laid ; 

And made of fresh Spring flowers his bed. 

And over him her veil hath spread. 

With looks as if for ever there 

His form should bloom as young and fair. 

And shall these pass away, and be 
A wreck of what they were,— 
Shall birds, and flowers, and eartli, and 
sea. 
And yon proud ship, and boy so fair. 
Be blasted with the tempest's rage. 
Or worn with poverty and age. 
Till all of life and hope shall seem 
A heart-deceiving, feverish dream ! 

Yes ! — and 'tis but few years we need. 

With retrospective eye. 
In their repeated tale to read 

Our own home's history : 
We know their end— to us, to all-— 
They are but blossoms, and they fall ; 
But yet young life, the sun, the flowers 
Are sweet as they were always ours : 

For they are emblems to the heart 

Of things it cannot see,— 
Emblems which have their counterpart 

In heaven's eternity ; 
And though their day be short, or done 
With our lost hours and setting sun. 
They are, within tlieir moment's flight. 
What there shall be for ever bright ! 

Some of the prose tales are very in« 
teresting, especially the Vicar's Maid, 
by Miss Mittbrd, Infatuation, by Mrs 
Hofland, and the Sailor's Widow> by 



L. A. H. Thid last tale seemr to be 
written. by no very practised hand, 
and the parts are not well proportion- 
ed; but there are some touches in 
it of simple and homely pathos, that 
go to the heart. The embellishments 
are in general excellent. Next to the 
Hebrew Mother, of which we have 
spoken, the Dying Babe is, in our 
opinion, the best. Nothing can be 
more affecting. On the whole, the 
Amulet is a very pretty, and a very 
agreeable, and a very instructive little 
volume. It contains, besides poetry 
and tales, some serious essays of me- 
rit ; and indeed its prevailing charac- 
ter may be said to be sweet solemnity, 
that unostentatiously distinguishes it 
from all similar publications. 

The " Forget me Not" is little, if at 
all, inferior in what may be called per- 
sonal charms to the fairest of its rivals. 
It is indeed most beautifully got up. 
Contemplation, the Bridge of Sighs, 
the Child's Dream, and the Cottage 
Door, are all exquisite. Many of the 
compositions in prose and verse are 
excellent — ^witness the following ex- 
quisite lines, by the J^ev. G. Croly: — 

THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. 

Oh thou Atlantic, dark and deep. 

Thou wilderness of waves. 
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 

In their uncrowded graves ! 

The sunbeams on thy bosom wake. 

Yet never light thy gloom ; 
The tempests burst, yet never shake 

Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! 

Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, 
Thy secrets who hath told ? — 

The warrior and his sword are there, 
The merchant and his gold. 

There lies their myriads in thy pall. 
Secure from steel and storm ; 

And he, the feaster on them all. 
The canker-worm. 

Yet on this wave the inountain's brow 
Once glow'd in morning beam ; 

And, like an arrow from the bow. 
Out sprang the stream : 

And on itrbank the olive grove. 

And the peach's luxury. 
And the damask rose— the nightbird's 
love— 

Perfumed the sky. 



S8 



*Ckrisimat Gifts. 



CJtti. 



Wb^c artthoii» proud Atlantis, now? 

Where are thy bright and brave ? 
Priest, people, warriors* living flow ? 

Look on that wave f 

Crine deepenM on the recreant land, 
Long guilty, long forgiven ; . 

There power uprearM the bloody hand. 
There fcoff*d at Heaven. 

The word went forth— the word of woe«-* 
The judgment-thunders pealed ; 

Tlie fiery earthquake blazed bek>w ; 
Its doom was seal'd* 

Now on its halls of ivory 

Lie giant weed and ocean slime. 

Burying from man's and angel's eye 
llie land of crime. 

Mr Ackermann was^ we believe^ 
among the first of the booksellers who 
published volumes of this kind in 
England^ and we strongly recommend 
his '^ Forget me Not^' both on that 
account and its own intrinsic merits, 
which are great and manifold. 

We come now to speak of " Friend-i 
ship's Oflfering," and its new editor^ 
Mr Hervey. But first let Mr Her- 
vey speak for himself: — 

•* The present Volume of the ' Friend- 
ship's Offering* is presented to the 
public, under circumstances which render 
a few observations necessary. It has, 
very recently, come into its present Edi- 
tor's hands, with a view to an entire 
change in its character and plan ; and, 
under the disadvantage of that fact, Jie 
has, of course, found it impossible to 
avail himself of all those sources which 
he has reason to believe are open to him, 



next year, for giving interest to its pages. 
The difficulties of his situation have, how- 
ever, been greatly relieved, by the kind- 
ness and promptitude with which assist- 
ance has been given to him, in afanost 
every quarter in which the limited time 
permitted an application :— and, whilst 
he has thus been enabled to present to 
the public, on the present occasion, a veiy 
splendid assemblage of names and talent» 
—the promises which he has received of 
continued and additional assistance, next 
year, afford reason to hope that St will 
have still increased claims to popularity* 

« The readers of the * Fbiendsbip's 
Offering,' will perceive that the-alter- 
ations in its plan consist in the removal 
of all those features which marked it as 
more pecxdlarly adapted for one season of 
the jTW^Inan another ; and in the dis- 
missal of its more toy-like attributes, for 
the purpose of combining, with the in- 
creased beauty of its embellishments, a 
high literary character. 

*' Whilst acknowledging his obligations 
to the many friends who have given him 
the use of their namef and talents, the 
Editor may escape the imputation of per- 
sonal vanity, in expressing his confidence 
that the Work has attained the character 
at which it aimed ; because little merit 
can be due to him, for the moral or lite- 
rary excellence of a miscellany, which 
has been fortunate enough to obtain mich 
contributions as those Which fill the pageii 
of this volume." 

Mr Hervey has acquitted himself 
admirably in his ecUtorial capacity; 
and^ like Mr Watts^ is himself one o£ 
his own very best contributors. There 
is much passion — much poetry in the 
following fine stanzas :— 



TO THE picture OF A DEAD GIRL, ON URST SEEING IT. 

The same— and oh, how beautiful ! — Uie same 
As memory meets thee through the mist of years !•— 
Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's ^me 
Lighting an eye unchanged in all<»-but tears ! 
Upon thy severed lips the very smile 
Remember'd well, the sunlight of my youth ; 
But gone the shadow that would steal, the while, 
To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth !•— 
Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last. 
Hie lost restored,— the vision of the past ! 

If ow like to what thou wert — and art not now ! 

Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art ! 

There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow, 

As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart ; 

Gone where its very wishes are at rest, 

And all its throbbings hush'd, and achings healM ;--> 

I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast. 

In thine immortal loveliness, reveal'd, 

And see thee, as in some permitted dream. 

There where thou art what here thou dost but seem f 



1886.;] ' Christmas Gi/U. SO 

I loved thee passing well;— tkou wert a beam 

Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea. 

With just so much of mirth as might redeem 

Mas from the musings of bis misery ; 

Yet ever pensire,— like a thing from home ! 

Lovely and lonely as a single star ! 

But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come 

From thine own element— -so very far, 

Ojily to be a cynosure to eyes 

Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies ! 

It were a crime to weep !— -'tis none to kneel. 
As now I kneel, before this type of thee, 
And worship her, who taught my soul to feel 
Such worship is no vain idolatry :— 
Thou wert my spurit*s spirit— and thou arf. 
Though this be all of thee time hath not teft. 
Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart, 
Like withered leaves that many storms have left ; 
I turn from liwiiu: looks---the cold, the dull. 
To any trace of ^ee^the lost, the beautiful ! 

Broken, and bow*d» and wasted with regret, 
I gaze, and weep— why do I weep alone ! 
I would not— would not, if I could — forget. 
But lun all remembrance— it hath grown 
* My very being !— Will she never speak ? 

The lips are parted, and the braided hair 
Seems as it waved upon her brightenuag cheek. 
And smile, and everything — but breath — are there ! 
Ob, for the voice that I have staid to hear, 
—Only in dreams,— -so many a lonely year ! 

It will not be ; — away, bright cheat, away ! 
Cold, for too cold to love ! — thy look grows strange ; 
I want the thousand thoughts that used to pkiy. 
Like lights and shadowings, in chequer'd change ; 
That smile !— I know thou art not like her, now,— 
Within her land— where'er it be— of light, 
She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow :— 
When will it pass away— this heavy night ! 
Oh ! will the cool clear morning never come, 
And light me to her, in her spirit's home ! 

Mr Montgomery cannot write anything, however slight^ that is not pregnant 
with piety. Common-place truths are bo presented in the following singulur 
Utde poem^ as to strike the heart like a knell. This is the triumph of genius. 

Q. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious 

frame? 
A. My Maker called me and I cameJ 

Q Winds, whence and whither do yo 

Wow? 
A. Thou must be " bom again," to know. 

Q. Ocean, what rules thy swell and fall ? 
A. The might of Him that ruleth all. 

Q. Planets, what guides you in your 

course? 
A. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 



QUESTIONS AMD ANSWEAS. 

Q^ Flowers, wherefore do ye bloom ? 
A. We strew thy pathway to the tomb. 

Q^ Stars, wherefore do ye rise ? 
A. To light thy spirit to the skies. 

Q. Fair moon, why dost thou wane? 
A. That I may wax again. 

Q. O sun, what makes thy beams so 

bright ? 
A. The Word that said— « Let there be 

lighL" 

Q^ Time» whither dost thou flee ? 
A. I travel to eternity. 

Q^ Eternity, what art thou, say ? 

A* Im^ am, will be ever more, to-day * 

Vol. XIX. 



Q. O life, what is thy breath ? 
A. A vapour, vanishing in death. 

d. O grave, where is thy victory ? 
A* Adc Hoc who cose ai^\&. tcnm xsa* 

A. In e\«t\ia^Xi!ifl^V\le« 



9D 



Christnuu GiflU* 



U9*' 



We remember readings some years 
ago^ a strange^ wild^ dreamy thing (we 
forget its name)^ by Cheviot Tichburn 
—a fictitious name we presmne. We 
are glad to see him again in the fbl« 
lowing elegant stanzas — 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

When the morning awakes in the valley, 
And the dew in the sun-beam is bright. 

Then forth, with light foot, let him sally 
Whose heart — like his footstep— 48 
light! 

But he whose wan spirit is iailing, 
Whose heart but ensts as a tomb, — 

Will roam when the mists are prevailing. 
In the cloud- woven veil of the gloom ! 

For the gloom to his spirit is roeeter. 
To the shade of his fortunes more 
true:— 
And the scent of night's flowerets is 
sweeter, . 
—Like the last faded hopes that he 
knew I 

We observe that Mr Hervey has 
advertised a new work, whether in 
prose or verse we know not ; and as 
we look upon him as a young man o^ 
real talent, and wish our readers to 
have an opportunity of forming their 
own opinion, wc extract another of 
his compositions — 

THE DEAD TBUMFETER* 

Wake, soldier ! — wake 1— thy war-horse 

waits, 
To bear thee to the battle back ;— 
Thon slumberest at a foeman*s gates ;— 
Thy dog would break thy bivouac ;-* 
Thy plume is trailing in the dust. 
And thy red fitulchion gathering rust ! 

Sleep, soldier! — sleep !— thy warfare 

o'er,— 
Not thine own bugle's loudest strain 
Shall ever break thy slumbers more. 
With summons to the battle.plain ; 
A trumpet-note more loud and deep 
Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep ! 



Thou need'st not helm nor cmrass now^ 
—Beyond the Gredan hero's boast,— 
Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow. 
Nor shrink before a myriad host,— 
For head and fied alike are sound, 
A thousand arrows cannot wound ! 

Thy mother is not in thy dreams, 
With that wild, widow'd look she wore 
The day-^how long to her It seems !— - 
She kiss'd thee, at the cottage door, 
And sicken'd at the sounds of joy 
That bore away her only boy ! 

Sleep, soldier ! — ^let thy mother wait, 
To hear thy bugle on the blast ; 
Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate. 
And bid her home to thee at last ;— 
He cannot tell a sadder tale 
Than did thy clarion, on the gale. 
When la8l--^d far away— slie heard its 
lingering echoes fail! 

In conclusion we observe, that while 
the embellishments of this volume are 
scarcely, if at all, inferior to thl|Be of 
the Literary Souvenir^-*the prose part 
is perhaps superior. But comparisons 
are odious at all times, and more espe- 
cially between such riv<ds as Mr Watts 
and Mr Hervey. We have a sincere 
r^ard for them both (though we ne- 
ver saw either,) and a free literary 
trade is best for all men of talents. 

Why so laudatory this months old 
Christopher ? methinks we liear mut- 
tered by some pluckless Tory, or some, 
trimming Wmg. Because we have 
been dealing (as in this article) with 
gentlemen — both editors and publish- 
ers. But woe be unto some half score 
of scribes, in a month or two— yes, 
woe be unto them — ^for the asses shall 
be flayed alive, ears and all, and tent 
scouring along Grub-street in raw ma- 
terial. The world will ^cknowle^ 
that it never heard braying till imt 
day — and one animal especially wOl 
be seen and heard to open his jaws to 
such an apochryphal extent, that in 
future ages the o^st authenticated ac- 
counts of his achievements will with 
difficulty find admittance iato systeips 
of natural history. 



lasM.^ 



Warki preparing fir Publieaiion. 



Bl 



WORltS PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION. 



LONDON. 



Mr Alaiic Watts has announced a yo- 
hime of Poems, under the title of ** Ly- 
rics of the Heart." 

Stories for the Christmas Week. In 2 
vols. 

A Translation of La Secchia Rapita, or 
the Rape of the Bucket; an Heroi-Co- 
mical Poem, in Twelve Cantos. From 
the Italian of Alessaridro Tassoni. With 
Notes, by James Atkinson, Esq. In 2 
duodecimo volumes. 

' A Comparative View of the Different 
Institutions for the Assurance of Lives, 
in which every question that can interest 
the Asssurer is discussed, is preparing for 
the press. By Charles BaU>age, Esq. 
A.M. F.R.S. Lond. Edin. &c. It will 
contain extensive Tables of the Rates 
char^ifed at all the Offices, as well as of 
the Profit made by each 'at various ages; 
together with some new Tables of the 
Rates of Mortality. 

The Divina Commedia of Dante Ali- 
ghieri, with an Analytical Comment, by 
Gabriel Rossetti, is announced. In 6 
vols. 

Hie Life of General Wolfe, from Ori- 
ginal Documents, is about to appear in a 
form similar to Mr Southey*s " Life of 
Nelson." 

Papers and Collections of Sir Robert 
Wilmot, Bart some time Secretary to the 
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, will soon ap- 
pear. 

The Story of Isabel. By the author of 
" The Favourite of Nature." 

A Romance, to be entitled ** The Last 
Man," from the pen of Mrs Shelley, is in 
a state of considerable forwardness. 

The Prophets and Apostles Compared. 
An Essay, proving the ulterior application 
of the Prophetic Writings; with a Table 
annexed, explaining the Two Thousand 
Tliree Hundred Days of Daniel, is in the 
press. 

A Fourth Volume of Mr Stewart Rose's 
Orlando Furioso, will soon make its ap- 
pearance. 

Tlie author of *• The Pilot" has an- 
nounced a new Novel, to be entitled 
•* The Last of the Mohicans." 

A Treatise on the Diseases of Children, 
by William P. Dewees, M.D. is announ- 
ced for early publication. 

A work is announced, under the title 
of »* The History of the Assassins," from 
Oriental Authorities. Translated from 
the German of Jos. Von Hanmer. With 
Notes and Illustrations. 

The Second Number of the Architcc- 



tnral Antiquities ol Normandy, by Mr 
Pogin, will soon be published. 

A History of the Uniteir States of 
America, from their first Settlement as 
Colonies, to the close of the War with 
Great Britain in 1815, will soon appear. 

The Fourth Part of Mr Bellamy's 
Transition of tlie Bible. 

A work, under the title of •* The Reign 
of Terror," is announced ; consisting of a 
Collection of Authentic Narratives, by 
Eye-witnesses, of the Horrors committed 
by the Revolutionary Governoient of 
France, under Marat and Robespierre. 

A new weekly publication, entitled, 
^ The Spuit and Manners of the Age," . 
will appear in January next To be con- 
ducted by the author of ** The Evangeli- 
cal Rambler." 

A Memoir of the Court of Heniy the 
Eighth, including an Account of the Mo- 
nastic Institutions in England at that Pe- 
riod, will soon appear. 

A Comparative View of Christianity, 
and all other Forms of Religion, is an- 
nounced by Dr Brown. 

The Book of Churches and Sects, by 
Mr Boone, is on the eve of puUication. 

Mr M. T. Sadler is preparing for pub- 
lication, a Defence of the Principle of the 
Poor Laws, in answer to their impugners, 
Mr Malthus, Dr Chalmers, and others. 
Together with suggestions for their im- 
provement, as well as for bettering the 
character and condition of the labouring 
classes. To which will be added, an 
Essay on Population, in disproof of the 
superfecundity of the human race, and 
establishing, bjr induction, a ' contrary . 
theory. 

A new edition of Moore's Irish Melo- 
dies, in separate Songs, with the Musics 
is announced for early publication. 

Shortly will be published, The Domes- 
tic Preacher ; or. Short Discourses from 
the MSS. of some Eminent Ministers. 

The Second Volume of Mr Godwin's 
History of the Commonwealth, is just 
ready for publication. 

Mrs Bray has nearly ready for the press, 
an Historical Romance, entitled De Foix, 
or Sketches of the Manners and Customs 
of the Fourteenth Century. 

Mr Crarrow, of St John's College, 
Cambridge, has announced a History of 
Lymington and its immediate Vicinity, 
with a Brief Account of its Vegetable and 
Mineral Productions. 

The author of *' Solace of an Invalid," 
is preparing a work, to be entitled. 



9% 

** Facts and Fancies, or Mental Diver- 
stbns." 

An Historical and Topographical De- 
scription of Great Yarmouth, in Norfolk, 
including the Sixteen Parbhes and Ham- 
lets of the Half-hundred of Lothingland, 
in Suifolk, will soon appear, from the pen 
of Mr J. H. Druery. 

The Third and Fourth Volumes of 
Kirby and Spence's Introduction to En- 
tomology, or Elements -of the Natural 
History of Insects, will soon appear. 

A work on the Infantry Movements, by 
the author of the « BritUh Drill," (Capt 
Barow Suasso,) is announced. In the 
preface, we are informed, a new mode of 
Exercise for the Foot is-proposed. 

Mr Murray projects a Collected Series 
of his Publications in Monthly Numbers. 
He begins with Modern Voyages, and in 
these, with Boss and Parry's First Expe- 
dition. 

Travels of the Russian Mission through 
Mongolia to China, and Residence - in 
Pekm, in the Years 1820, 1821, by George 
Timkowski, will soon be published. 

A Letter to Thomas Fowell Buxton, 
Esq. M.P. containing Statements re- 
specting the Profits on Capital employed 
in Working Mines in England, with an 
Inquiry as to the Success likely to attend 
similar undertakings in Mexico, by John 
Taylor, Esq. is in the press. 

Preparing for publication, in one vo- 
lume, uniformly printed with Dr Todd*s 
edition of Johnson's Dictionary, Etymons 
of English Words. By John Thompson, 
la^ Private Secretary to the Marquis of 
Hastings, in India. 

The History of the Church of England, 
during the Reign of King Henry the 
Eighth, by the Rev. Henry Soames, is 
announced. 

The Memoirs of the Prince de Mont- 
bairry, will soon appear. 

Messrs Hurst, Robinson, and Co. an- 



Works preparing for PubHdaikn. C^^ 

noonce a New. Series of the Monthly Re- 
view, to commence on the 1st of January 
next The Numbers of that work which 
have been published since August last^ 
exhibit a very visible improvement, both 
in the style, the variety, and the spirit of 
the articles. Among its principal contri- 
butors, we understand, are some of the 
most distinguished literary men of the 
day. 

A Digest of the Evidence taken before 
the Select Committees of the two Houses 
of Parliament, appointed to inquire into 
the State of IreUind. With Notes Histo- 
rical and Explanatory. In 2 vols. 8vo. 

Vindicise Christianae; a Comparative 
Estimate of the Genius and Tendenqrof 
the Greek, the Hindu, the Mahometan, 
and the Christian Religions. By the 
Rev. Jerome Alley, LL.B. M.R.I.A. 
&c. &c In 1 large vol. 8vo. 

A ne^ edition of Smith's Wealth of 
Nations ; in one vol. 8vo, with a Life of 
the Author. A Prelimuiary Disserta- 
tion, tracing the Progress of Political 
Science, and containing a View of its 
present State, will be prefixed. Notes 
upon the text will be subjoined. 

The First Number of Bolster's Qjiar- 
terly Magazine is to appear in London, 
Edinburgh, and Dublin, on the 1st of 
February. It is the only LiUraty Jour" 
nal in Irdand, and the Editor has secured 
the assistance of many writers of distin- 
guished talent. So great is the interest 
excited in the sister kingdom by the an- 
nounceihent of this publication, that near- 
ly 1000 subscribers have already come 
forward to its support. 

The First Number of a new Monthly 
Work, of some originality of pretension, 
entitled " The Time Piece," will appear 
on the 1st of March. It will consist 
chiefly of Sketches of Society, and disqui- 
sitions on the more popular parts of lite- 
ratore, and its history. 



EDINBURGH. 



On the 25th of January next will be 
published, in 3 vols, post 8vo, Woodstock, 
a Tale of the Long Parliament By the 
Author of ** Waverley," &c. 

A new periodical work is announced, 
under the title of the Edinburgh Theolo- 
gical Magazme. No. I. to appear in Ja^ 
nuary next. 

A Second Edition of a Treatise on the 
Law of Evidence. By George Tait, Esq. 
Advocate. 

A Sermon preached on the Sunday after 
the Funeral of tlie Rev. William Gillespie, 
Minister of Kells. By the Rev. A. Mac- 
gowan, Minister of Dairy. Svo. 

Martyoufle, a Tragedy. By Thomas 
Aird, Esq. 8vo. 



Annals of the House of Hanover, col- 
lected and arranged by Andrew Halliday, 
M.D. 

A New Edition of the Grave, and other 
Poems, by Robert Blair ; as collected by 
Dr Robert Anderson ; to which is pre- 
fixed, a Life of the Author, is in the press, 
and will be ready for publication in the 
course of next month. 

The Edinburgh Annual Register, for 
the Year 1825. 1 vol. Svo. 

A Painting, illustrative of " Bums'a 
Jolly Beggars," has just been finished by 
Mr A. Henderson of Glasgow, from whidi 
a Mezzotinto Engraving, on Steel, is an* 
nounced for publication. 



idsa.;] 



Monthfy lAsi of New Fubikations^ 



93 



MONTHLY LIST OF NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



LONDON. 



AGRICULTUBE. 

An Encyclopaedia of Agriculture> com- 
prising the Theory and Practice of the 
V^uation, Transfer, Laying out, Improve- 
ment, and Management of Landed Pro- 
perty ; and the Cultivation and Economy 
of the Animal and Vegetable Productions 
of Agriculture, including the latest Im- 
provements ; a General History of Agri- 
culture in all countries ; and a Statistical 
View of its present State, with Sugges- 
tions for its future Progress in the Bri- 
tish Isles. By J. C. Loudon, F. L. S. 
H. S. &c. 8vo, Engravings, L.2, 10s. 

An Essay on the Weeds of Agriculture, 
with their Common and Botanical Names, 
their respective characters and bad qua- 
litles, whether as infesting samples of 
corn, or encumbering the soil ; also Prac- 
tical Remarks on their Destruction, by 
Fallowing or otherwise. The posthu- 
mous work of Benjamin Hqlditch, Esq. 
late Editor of the Fatmer's Journal. 
Edited by G. Sinclair, F.L.S., F.H.S., 
Author of Hortus Gramineus Woburn- 
ensis. 3s. 6d. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Part I. of Dowding*s General Cata- 
logue for 1826 ; comprising a rich, splen- 
did, and extensive Collection of Books of 
Prints, and Works connected with the 
Arts and Sciences, in Drawing, Painting, 
Engraving, Sculpture, Architecture, Sur- 
gery, Mechanism, Natural History, &c. 
&c. embracing every description of At- 
lases, Surveys, Charts, Maps, Plans, and 
Scenery of the known World — in Histo- 
ry, Voyages and Travels, Biography, An- 
tiquities, Ecclesiastical, Civil, and Mili- 
tary; Habits, Customs and Manners, 
Trades, and various callings of all Nations 
in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. 

Bibliotheca Selectissima ; a Catalogue 
of Books printed in the 15th century, 
productions of the presses established by 
Schoiffer, Caxton, Ulric Zell, Mentelin, 
Eggestyn, Guldenschaaf, Coelhoif, Sorg, 
Homborch, Creusner, Sweynheym and 
Panuartz, Fflugel and Laver, Zeiner, Ke- 
telaer, and Leempt, J. de Westphalia, 
Leeuw, Veldener, the Fratres VitaB Com- 
munis, Jenson, Ratdolt, Wynkyn de 
Worde, and most other illustrious early 
t3rpographers; including several Editiones 
Principes and Volumes unknown to Bib- 
liographers ; with Books printed by the 
Aid uses, miscellaneous, curious and rare 
Books, and ancient vellum Manuscripts. 
By W. Bayncs. 5s. 



fiKXSRAPRY. 

Memoirs of Miss Jane Taylor. By her 
brother, 'Mr Isaac Taylor, jun. 

EDUCATION. 

A Treatise on Greek Accents. By 
W. Viger. 12mo, Is. 6d. 

Letters on Entomology, for young 
persons. 12mo, 5s. 

A Manual of the System of Instruc- 
tion pursued at the Infant School, Mea- 
dow Street, Bristol. Illustrated by ap- 
propriate Engravings. The fourth edi- 
tion, considerably enlarged. By D. G. 
Goyder. 58. 

The Fundamental Words of the Greek 
Language. Adapted to the memory of the 
student by means of derivations and de- 
rivatives, striking contexts, and other 
associations. This work is intended like- 
wise as Exercises in Greek, Latin, and 
English Etymology for the higher classes 
of Schools. By F. Valpy, A.M.' 8vo. 

FINE ARTS. 

Venus and Cupid, by Westall, and en- 
graved by Killaway. 4!S. Proof, 7s. 

Woolnoth's Ancient Castles. 2 vols. 
8vo, L.5 ; 4to, L.7, 8s. 

The School of Athens, in imitative 
cameo. lOs. 6d. plain; L.1, Is. shaded. 

LAW. 

The Laws of tlie Customs, compiled 
by direction of tlie Lords Commissioners 
of his Majesty's Treasury, and published 
by the appointment, and under the sanc- 
tion of the Commissioners of his Majes- 
ty's Customs ; with Notes and Indexes, 
by J. D. Hume, Esq. 16s. 

The Practice of the Court of Exche- 
quer. Part I. containing the X«aw and 
Practice of Extents, Scire Facias, and 
Revenue Informations, in the office of 
the King's Remembrancer. The second 
edition, corrected and enlarged. By 
James Manning, Esq. of Lincoln's Inn, 
Barrister at Law. 14s. 

The Elements of Hindu Law. By W, 
Stranger. 2 vols, L.1, 15s. 

MEDICINE AND SURGERY. 

Further Observations on the Medi- 
cinal Leech. By James Rawlins John- 
son, M.D. F.R.Si, &c. &c. 

The New London Medical Pocket- 
Book ; explaining. In alphabetical or- 
der, the Causes, Symptoms, and Treat- 
ment of Diseases. By J. S. Forsyth, 
Surgeon. 6s. 

An Address to the Public on the pro- 
priety of Midwives, instead of Surgeons, 
practising Midwifery. 

H 



94 



MonUdy List of New PuBUedHons* 



CJ*xu 



Obsenrations on Cancer; comprising 
numerous Cases on Cancer in the Breast, 
Lip, and Face, cured by a mild method 
of practice^ which immediately alleviates 
the most acute pain. By T. J. Graham, 
M.D. Fellow of the Royal College of 
Surgeons. 3s, 6d. 

MISCELLANIES. , 

Time*s Tjelescope for 1826; or, a Com- 
plete Guide to the Almanack: containing 
an Explanation of Saints* Days and Ho- 
lidays; With Illustrations of British His- 
tory and Antiquities. 

Reminiscences of Michael Kelly, of 
the King's Theatre, including a period of 
nearly half a century ; with original Anec- 
dotes of many distinguished persons, 
rojral, political, literary, and musical. 2 
vols. 8vo, L. 1^ 8s. 

The Free Speaker ; Opinions on Hu- 
man Character and Society. 2 vols. 
L.1, 4s. 

History of the Transactions in India, 
during the Administration of the Mar- 
quis of Hastings. By Henry T. Prinsep, 
Esq. his private secretaryj L.1, 12s. 
■ Remarks on the Exclusion of Officers 
of His Majesty's Service from the Staff of 
the Indian Army; and on the Present 
State of the European Soldier in India, 
whether as regards his Services, Health, 
or Moral Character; with a few of the 
most eligible means of modifying the one 
and improving the other, advocated and 
considered. ^ By a King's Officer. 8vo, 
sewed. 

The House-t:eeper's Ledger, for 1826 ; 
a plain and easy Plan of Keeping accu- 
rate Accounts of the Expenses of House- 
keeping. And the Elements of Domes- 
tic Economy. By William Kitchener, 
M.D. Author of "The Cook's Oracle." 

38. 

Stockdale's Calendar for 1826, con- 
taining — 1st, The Peerage of the United 
Kingdom, with the Arms, &c. of all the 
Peers, with entirely new plates, carefully 
revised and amended.»-2d. The Baro- 
netage, with the Arms, &c. of all the Ba- 
ronets, with entirely new plates. — 3d, 
The Almanack for 1826.— 4th, The Com- 
panion, with considerable additions and 
emendations.— 5th, The Index. L.1, 8s. 
and L.1, 15s. 

. A New System of Short- Hand ; where- 
by words can be written with all theur 
vowels and consonants, as with the com- 
mon hand, but in one fourth or fifth part 
of the time ; or they can be contracted to 
tlie utmost brevity. By Thomas Gib- 
bons, L.U.H.E.R.A. Cs. 6d. 

A Legacy for Young Ladies ; consist- 
ing of Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose and 
Verse. By the late Mrs Barbauld. 7s. 



Table of lyages, calculated at the rate 
of ten hours per day, from half an hour to 
eight days inclusive, fit>m 28. to 408. per 
week. 5s. 

Second Journey round a Bibliomaiuac's 
Library. By William Davis, bookseller 
Only 50 copies, large paper, price ISs. 
and 250 copieis, postSvo, price 8s. 6d. 
printed. 

The Mechanics' Almanack; a most 
complete Monthly Calendar, computed 
for the second after leap year, and for the 
year of Christ 1826. Contauimg an Ab- 
stract of the Laws relative to Mechanics, 
Officers of Mechanics' Institutions ; to- 
gether with Events, Incidents, Anecdotes, 
Memoirs, Records, and Miscellaneous In- 
telligence of all kinds. 4s. 

The Magistrates' Pocket-book ; or, an 
Epitome of the Duties and Practice of a 
Justice of the Peace out of Sessions; al- 
phabetically arranged. To which is added, 
a copious and general index. By William 
Robinson, Esq. LL.D. of the Middle 
Temple. 16s. 

Nos. I. and II. of Laconics; or, the 
Best Words of the Best Authors, with all 
the Authorities given. This Work is in- 
tended to be completed in Twelve Parts. 
To be published monthly, 2s. 6d, 

Varieties of Literature; being Selec- 
tions from the Portfolio of the late John 
Brady, Esq. the Author of the ** Clavis 
Calendaria," &c. Arranged and adapted 
for publication. By John Henry Brady, 
his son. 

Mirror of the Months. ** Delectando 
pariterque monendo." 

A Discourse delivered at the Opening 
of the City of London Literary and Scien- 
tific Institution, on the 30th May, 1825* 
By J. R. M*CulIoch. Is. 

NOVELS AND TALES. 

The Literary Souvenir ; or. Cabinet of 
Poetry and Romance, for 1826. Edited 
by Alaric A. Watts. With numerous 
splendid engravings. The work contains 
eighty original tales and poems, from the 
pens of Southey, Milman, Montgomery, 
Mrs Hemans, Gait, Allan Cunningham, 
Campbell, Bowles, L.E.L., Miss Mitford, 
Coleridge, Maturin, Wiffen, Hogg^ The 
Author of " Gilbert Earle," Wranghani, 
Bowring, Barton, Delta, The Author of 
*' To-day in Ireland," Clare, Sheridan^ 
the Author of ** Phantasmagoria," Pol- 
whele, Malcolm, Barnard, Doubleday, the 
Author of " London in the Olden Time," 
Alaric A. Watts, &c. 12s. 

The Amulet ; or. Christian and Liter- 
ary Remembrancer. 12s. 

The Forget-McNot for 1826. 12s. 

Pandurang Hari ; or. Memoirs of a 
Hindoo. 3 vols. 12mo, L.1, 4<s. 



1826.;] 



The English in Italy. By a Dtstin- 
guished Resident. 3 vols. ll 1, 10s. 

Anselmo^ a Tale of Italy, illustrative 
of Roman and Neapolitan ^ife, from 
1789 to 1809. By A. Vieusseux, Author 
of ** Italy and the Italians." 16s. 



Monthly hist of New Publieaiiofu. 95 

AiPrief Sketch of the History and tVe- 
sent Situation of the Valdenses, in Pie- 
mont, commonly called Vaudois. By 
Hugh Dyke Acland, Esq. 2b. 6d. 

The Life and Writmgs of St Paul With 
an Introductory Inquiry Into the Tradi. 



November Nights ; being a Series of tions of the Fathers, and the Hypothe- 



Tales, &c. for Winter Evenings. By the 
Author of •* Warreniana." 10s. 

Christmas Tales for 1826. To be con- 
tinned annually. 

The Highest Castle and the Lowest 
Cave ; or, the Events of Days which are 
gone. By the Author of the " Seruiium.** 

POETRY. 

Julia ; or, the Pilgrim. A Fragment. 
With other Poems. 

The Saviour. A Poem. Founded on 
the Rev. Samuel Wesley's Life of our 
blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ 
By a Clergyman. 7s. 

Love's Victory ; or, a School for Pride. 
A comedy, in five acts, now performing 
at the Theatre Royal, Co vent- Garden. 
By George Hyde, Author of " Alphon- 
zus," a tragedy. 3s. 6d. 

Poetic Hours, consisting of Poems, orfs 
ginal and translated ; Stanzas for Music, 
&c. &c. By G. F. Richardson. 5s. 

THEOLOGY. 



sis of Lightfoot, Viscount Baitington, 
Poddridge, Lardner, Lord Lyttleton, Fa- 
ley, Macknight, HaJes, and Townsend, 
on the Apostle's Conversion, Ordination^ 
Mission, Journeys, and the Chronology of 
his History, By William Stephen Gilly, 
M.A., Rector of North Fambridge, Es- 
sex, and Author of << Narrative of Re- 
searches among the Waldenses." 

VOYAGES AND tRAVtlA 

An Autumn in Greece. By H. Lyt- 
ton Rulwer, Esq. to which is subjoined, 
" Greece to the close of 1825." ' By a 
Resident with the Greeks, recently ar- 
rived. 

Travels through Russia, Siberia, Po- 
land, Austria, Saxony, Prussia, Hanover, 
&c &c. undertaken during the years 
1822, 1823, and 1824, while suffering 
from total blindness, and comprising an 
Account of the Author being conducted 
a State Prisoner from the Eastern parts 
of Siberia. By James Holman, R.N. 



The Advent Kingdom, and Divinity of K. W. and P.L.S. A new edition* enlar- 
tbe Messiah, demonstrated in a plain and ged. 



Scriptural Exposition of the Sacred Text. 
By Edwin T. Caulfield, Lt. R.N. 4s. 6d. 

The Works of James Arminius, D.D. 
Translated from the Latin. By J. Ni- 
chols. 

Essays on some of the Peculiarities of 
the Christian Religion. By Richard 
Whately, D.D. 7s. 



Greece in 1825 ; being the Journals df 
James Emerson, Esq.- Count Pecchio, 
and W. H. Humphreys, Esq. ; written 
during their recent visits to that coun- 
try, and exhibiting a picture of its pre- 
sent political condition, state of society^ 
manners, resources. 



EDINBURGH. 



Marriage. By the author of The In- 
heritance. Thurd edition. 2 vols, post 
8vo, L.1, Is. 

Review of the Conduct of the Directors 
of the British and Foreign Bible Society, 
relative to the Apocrypha, and to their 
Administration on the Continent With 
an Answer to the Rev. C. Simeon, and 
Observations on the Cambridge Remarks. 
By^ Robert Haldane, Esq. 2s. 6d. 

A Letter to the Right Honourable the 
Lord Provost and Patrons of the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh, on the Proposed New 
Regulations respecting the Study of Mid- 
wifery. By John Thatcher, M.D. Lec- 
turer on Midwifery, &c. 

The Juridical Society's Styles. Vol. 
III. containing << Heritable Rights." 
Third edition. 4tO; L.2y 12s. 6d. 



The Principles of Political Economy, 
with a Sketch of the Rise and Progress of 
the Science. By J. R. M'Ciilloch, Esq. 
8vo, 12s. 

A New Editu>n of Paxton's Illustra- 
tions of the Holy Scriptures, collected 
and enlarged. In 3 vols. 8vo. With 
Portrait of the Author, and Map of Pa- 
lestine. L.1, 168. 

A New Edition (the third) of Major 
General Stewart's Sketches of the Cha» 
racter, Mjmnets, and Present State of the 
Highlanders of Scotland with Deteils of 
the Military Services of the Highland 
Regiments. 2 vols. 8vo, L. 1, 8s. 

A Vindication of the Church of Scot- 
land from the Charge of Fatalism, urged 
against it in the Eighth Number of the 
Phrenological Journal. 



96 



Monthly List of New PubHcaiUms. 



CiWh. 



A New Edition (the fourth) of a Trea- 
tise on Leases. By Robert Bell, Esq. 
'Advocate. Enlarged and improved by 
Waiiara Bell, Esq. Advocate. 2 vols. 
8vo, L. 1, 4«. 

The Substance of the Speech of Francis 
Jeffrey, Esq. at the late Public Dinner to 
Joseph Hume, Esq. M.P. on the Subject 
of the Repeal of the Combination Laws. 
3d. (Published at the request of the 
meeting.) 

Lord Stair*s Institutions of the Laws 
jof Scotland, the fourth edition, with Com- 
mentaries and a Supplement^ by George 
Brodie, Esq. Advocate. Part I. L. 1, 
lis. 6d. 

A Letter to Pr Andrew Duncan, Sen. 
regarding the Establishment of a New 
.Infirmary in Edinburgh. By Richard 
Poole, M.D. 

. The Works of James the I. King of 
Scotland. To which is prefixed, a Histo- 
rical and Critical Dissertation on his Life 
and Writings \ also some brief Remarks 
on the intimate Connexion of the Scots 
Language with the other Northern Dia- 
lects, and a Dissertation on Scottish Mu- 
sic. The whole accompanied with Notes, 
Historical, Critical, and Explanatory. 
With Portrait. 12mo, 6s. 

Thomson's Diary for 1826. 4^. 

Outlines of a Greek Grammar on the 
plan of the Latin Rudiments. By Wil- 
liam Steele, A.M. Teacher, Edinburgh. 
38. boDind. 

Janus ; or, the Edinburgh Literary 
■Almanack. 1 voL post 8vo, 12s. 
. The Lay of the Last Minstrel ; a Poem. 
Dy Sir Walter >Scott, Bart. A new edi- 
tion ; handsomely printed by Ballantyne, 
in fooolscap 8vo, with Vignette Title- 
page. 8s. 

A System of Phrenology. By George 
Combe, Esq. late President of the Phre- 
nological Society. Svo. Second edition. 

The Edinburgh Philosophical Journal, 
conducted by Professor Jameson. No. 
XXVII. With Engravings. 7s. 6d. 
^ The Edinburgh Medical and Surgical 
Journal. No. LXXXVI. 6s. 

The Principles on which Man is Ac- 
countable for his Belief; or Henry 
Brougham, Esq. Defended, in a Conver- 
sation occasioned by two Sermons lately 
published by Dr W^law. 

An Advice to Domestic Servants. By 
a l^istress of a Family. 2d. 



Also, Pasted on a board, to be hung up 
in Kitchens, a Manual of the Duties of 
a Servant of All- Work. Price 6d. ; or 
on paper, only 2d. 

An Apology for the Study ef Phreno- 
logy. 8vo, Sewed, Is. 

Cases Decided on Appeal from the 
Courts of Session and Xi^'^ds, from 15th 
February to 5th July, 1822. Reported . 
by Patrick Shaw, Esq. Vol. I. P&rt IL 
4«. 6d. 

Statement by the Directors of the 
Edinburgh Drawing Institution, explana- 
tory of the Object and General System of 
Instruction to be pursued in that Esta- 
blishment.— This Statement is intended 
to guide those who intend to offer them* 
selves as Candidates for the situation of 
Masters, Assistants, and Matrons. 

The Christian Psalmist ; Or Hymns^ 
Selected and OriginaL By James Mont- 
gomery. With an Introductory Essay. 
12mo, 5s. Royal 24mo, 3s. 6d.— -This 
volume contains 100 Original Hymns by 
Mr Montgomery. 

The Philosophy of Religion ; being a 
Sequel to the Christian Philosopher. By 
Thomas Dick, author of the Christian 
Philosopher. 12mo, 8s. 

Owen on Spiritual-mindedness. With 
an Introductory Esay by Thomas Chal- 
mers, D.D. 12mo, 4>s. 6d. 

Henry's Communicant's Companion ; 
with au Introductory Essay by the Rev. 
John Brown, Edinburgh. 12mo. 48« 

Horne*s Commentary on the Book of 
Psalms ; with an Introductory Essay, by 
the Rev. Edward Irving. In 3 vols. 
12mo, 12s. 

Mather's Essays to Do Good ; with an 
Introductory Essay by Andrew Thom- 
son, D.D. 12mo, 2s. 6d. 

Owen on Indwelling Sin ; with an In- 
troductory Essay by Thomas Chalmers, 
D.D. 12mo, 3s. 6d. bds. 

Life of St Augustine. ISmo, 3s. 

The Gardener of Giammis. ISmo, Is. 
6d. 

Memoir of Catharine Brown, a Chris- 
tian Indian of the Cherokee Nation. By 
Rufus Anderson, A.M. Assistant Secre- 
tary of the American Board of Commis- 
sioners for Foreign Missions. A new 
edition. With an Appendix, containing 
Original Papers, and Letters of her Bro- 
ther, David Brown, Native Missionary to 
tlie Cherokee Indians. 2s. 



ina-i 



Monthfy Rosier* 



97 



MONTHLY BEGISTEB. 



- Wheat. 
Ist,.. 358. Od. 
2d, ...338. Od. 
3d, ...318. Od. 



EDINBUROH.-.Z>a;. 14. 



-Barley. 
Ist,*.. 328. 6d; 
2d, ...308. Od. 
3d, ...28s. Od. 



Oats. 

Ist, 238. Od. 

2d, 206. Od. 

3d, ISk. Od. 



Average of Wheat £1, 13«. 2d. lO-lSths. 
Tuesday^ Dec, 13. 



PMseft Beatif. 
l8t,......238. Od. 

3d, .218. (id. 

3d, •....208. Od. 



Beef <1 7i oz. per lb.) Os. Od. to Os. 8d. 

Alutton . • . • Os. 5d. to 06. 8d. 

Veal 08. 8d. to Is. Od. 

PoriE Os. 5d. toOs. 7d. 

Lfamb, per quarter • 2s. Od. to Ss. 6d. 

Tallow, per stona • 76. 6d. to Ss. Od. 



Quartern Loaf • •, Os. 
New Potatoes (28 lb.) If. 
Fresh Butter, per lb. Is. 
Salt ditto, per stone 21s. 
Ditto, per lb. . • Is. 
Eggs, per dozen • Is. 



HADDINGTON.— iJcc. 0. 



\nieat 
1st, ....Sas. 9d. 
2d, ....3l8. Od. 
3d^ ....26s. Od. 



Barley. 
1st, ... 328..6d. 
2d, ... 30s. Od. 
3d, ... 28s. Od. 



Oats. 

1st, ... 23s. Od. 
2d, ... 208. Od. 
3d, ... 17s. Od. 



Pease. 

Ist, .. 226. Od. 

2d, ... 20s. Od. 

3d, ... 18s. Od. 

Average of Wheal £1, llf. td. 6.12th8. 



9d. to Os.lOd. 
Od. to Os. Od. 
4d. to Is. 6d. 
Od. to 238. Od. 
4d. to Is. jBd. 
4d. to Os. Od. 



Beanf. 

Ist, 298.0d. 

2d, •••.. 20b. Od. 
3d, IQs. 04* 



Average Price* of Corn in England and Walesyfrom tfie Return* received in the Wide 

ended Dec* 3. 
Wheat, 61s. Sd.— Barley, lis. lld.-Oats, 26s. lid.— Rye, 43s. 6d.— Beans, 43s. IkL— Peaaa^ 48s. M. 



London^ Corn Exchange% Dec' 5, 



Wheat, red, old 
Red, new . • 
Pinedittd . . 
Supexfiue ditto 
Wfiite, . . . 
Fine ditto . . 
bupei^e ditto 
Rye .... 
Barley, . . 
Fiae ditto . . 
Superfine d|tto; 
Miut .... 
Fine .... 
Hog Pease . 
Maple . . . 
Maple, fins 



Oto 
4Sto 




50 



56 to 63 Small &eans,new 18 to 50 



35 



66to7U 
50 to 160 
60 to 69 
66 to 70 
32 to 45 
30 to 

43 to 
00 to 
6Sto 
68 to 

44 to 

45 to 
— to 



46 
47 



White pease . 42 to 
Ditto, boilers . 52 to 



48 
56 



Ditto, old 
Tick ditto, new 
Ditto, old . 
Feed oats . 
Fine ditto . . 
Poland ditto . 



47 Fine ditto 

00 Potato ditto 

66 Pine ditto . . 

72 Scotch . . . 

Flour, per sack 

Ditto, seconds. 

Bran, . . 



52 to 53 
38 to 46 
44 to 50 

25 to 27 

28 to 29 

26 to 28 

29 to 32 

28 to 51 

29 to 
Oto 

55 to 
50 tu 
11 to 



33 

60 
55 
V2 



Liverpool^ Dec, 0. 
«. tf. a. A, *. d. V d* 

Wheat, pmr 70 lb. • Amer. p. 1961f>. 

to 10 4 ^weet,UJ5. 23 04a S6 

to — Do.inl)jDiid— *- ^ 

9 Oto 10 O^ourbond CfitOfOt/O 
8 9 to 10 obabmeal, p«f tfO lb. 



Eng. 9 

Old . . . — 



Scotch 
Irish . 
Bonded 



s. 



Seeds f jc. 
«. d. 



Rye Grass, 
Ribgrass, 



Tares, per bslu 
Must Wlute, . 

— Brown, new 12 to 20 
Turnips, teh. 12 to 16 

— lied it green to — Ui Foreign red 

— White, to— 0! White 



S, 4. d, 

!rO to 32 
— to — 



3 to 8 

10 to 20 

Clover, red cii^-t.65 to 86 

— White ... 35 to 60 

Oto — 

. „ ., Oto- 

Caraway, cwt 34 to 40 OiCknriandcr .. 10 to 18 
. *. 25 to 33 



Cauary.nerqr. 77 to 83 OlTrefoU. 
Cinque Foin 40 to — 

Rape Seed, per last, £23, to £26, Od. 



6 
6 
6 



3 
3 
3 



— to 
Barley, per 60 lbs. 
Eng. ... 5 6 to 
Scotch . 5 to 
Irish . . 4 10 to 
Foreign . ^ to 
Oats, per 45 lb. 
Eng. ... 3 3 to 
Irish ... 3 3 to 
Scotch . . 3 3 to 
For. in bond — to - 
Do.dut.fr. ~ to -« 
Rye, per qr.38 to 4 1 
Malt iier b. 8 6 to 10 
— MiddUng 7 
Beans, per q. 
English . 46 
Irish . . 46 
Rapcseed 23 
Pease.jcrey — 
—White . — 
Flour, English, 
p.2401b.fine5i Oto 53 
Irish, 2ds 51 Oto 53 



— jEnglish 
jSootdi . . 
8 lri|0i . . . 



74 



9 to 9 o 



Oto 52 
Oto 50 
to 25 
to — 
Oto — 



S8 to 85 
27 Oto 29 
25 Oio85 

S|Bnn,p.S41b.— «) — 
° Butter y B^tf^ |:c. 

- BHtter,p.c9rL a. d, 
Belfast, lOOOtolOSO 
Newry . . 90 Oto 91 

9Wateiford 95 Oto — 
Cork,plc.9d, 96 to MD 
3d dry — to — 

Beef, p.' tkree. 

— Mesa 115 to 125 
— p. barrel ->• Oto — 
Pork, p. bl. 

0~*Mess . 7TOto-84 

0— half do. 40 Oto 44 

Bacon, p. cwt. 

OShortmSds. 60 to62 

Sides . . 58 to — 
Hams, dry, — to — 

OiGreen . . — to — 

0|Lard,Td.p.c— to — 



Weekly Price of Stocksyfrqm 2d to 22d Nov. 1825. 



I 



2d. 



Bank stocky 

3 pej? cent, reduced,. 

3 per cent. consoL»,^^>>>..>»« 



34 per cent, consols^^. 
New 3 per cent. 
New 4 per cept. consols,. 
India stock,. 

bondsv 

Exchequer bills ,«....^.«.« 
Excliequcr bills, sm. 
Consols for ace. 
liong Annuities 



f>sjf r i rr'rrrrr i ~rrr' i "* 




8th. 



^^^^(P»##^^>»0»<>»0»|0* #»!#*»»<»»* 



French 5' per cents. ^ 



90f. 85c. 



Vol. XIX. 





CSd. 




6 p. 
1 p. 1 dts. 
1 p. I dis. 

9S(. 



I 



98 Monthty RegisUu . - f Jj 

Course of Exchange^ Dec. 6. — Amsterdam, 12 i 6. C. F. Ditto at sight, 12 : a» 
Rotterdam, 12:7- Antwerp, 12 : 7. Hamburgh, 37 ; 3. Altona, 37 : 4. Paris, 
3 d. sight, 25 : 30. Ditto, 25 : 55 Bourdeaux, 25 : 55. Frankfbft 6n the Maine, 152. 
Petersburgh, per rble. Of 3 U. Beriin, ^^ 0. Vienna, Eff, FL 10: 6. Trieste, 10 : 6, 
Madrid, 36^. Cadiz, 3«i. Bilboa, 3GJ. Barcelona, 36. Seville, 36j. Gibraltar, 31, 
Leghorn, 49^. Genoa, 44J. Venice, 27 : 0. Malta, — . Naples, 40^. Palermo* 
per oz. 122. Lisbon, 50f . Oporto, 60|. Buenos Ayres, iSJ. Rio Janeiro, 48^. Bahia, 
50. Dublin, 94 per cent. Cork, 94 per cent. 

Prices of Gold and Silver, per or., — ^Foreign gold, in bars, jC3: 17 : 6d. per oz. 
Silver in bars, stand. 5s« Id. 



PRJCES CURRENT, Dec. 10.— London, 6. 



SUGAR, Muse. 
B. P. Dry Brown, . cwt. 
Mid. good, and fine mid. 
Fine and very. fine» . . 
Refined Doub. Loaves, . 
Powder ditto, . 
Single ditto. 
Small Lumps, . . . 
, Large ditto, ... 
Crushed Lump", . • 
MOLASSES. British, cwt. 
COFFEE, Jamaica, . ewt. 
Ord. good, and fine ord. 
Mid. good, and fine mid. 
Dutth Triage and very ord. 
Ord. good, and fine ord. 
Mid. good, and fine mid. 
jSt Domingo, ....>. 

Pimento (m Bond,) . . . 
SPIRITS, 
Jam. Rum, 16 O. P. gall. 
Brandy, ...... 

Geneva, . • • 
Grain Whisky, • . 
WINES, 
Claret, 1st Growths, hhd. 
Portugal Red, pipe, 

Spanish White, butt, 
Teneriffc, pipe, 

Madeira, . p 110 gall. 
LOGWOOD, Jam. ton, 
Honduras, .... 

Campeachy, • • . 
FUSTIC, Jamaica, . 

Cuba 

INDIGO, Cavaccasfine, lb. 
TIMBER, Amer. Pine, foot. 

Ditto Oak, 

Christiansand (dut.paid,) 

Honduras Mahiogany, . 

St Domingo, ditto, • . 

TAR, American, brl. 

Archangel, 

PITCH, Foreign, cwt. 

TALLOW, Rus. Yel. Cand. 

Home melted, .... 

HEMP, Polish Rhine, ton, 

Petersburgh, Clean, . . 

FLAX, 

Riga Thies. & DruJ. Rak. 

Dutch, 

Irish, . 
MATS, Archangel, . . 
BRISTLES, 

Petersburgh Firsts, cwt. 
ASHES, Peters. Pearl, . . 
Montreal, ditto, • 
Pot, 
OIL, Whale, . tun, 

TOBACCO. Virgin, fi'ne, lb. 

Middling, . . 

Inferior, 
COTTONS, Bowed Georg. 

Sea Island, fine, . 
Stained, . , 
Middling, . 
Demerara and Berbice, 
West India, . . 
Pemambueo, 
Maranham, . 



/68 

.75 

78 

112 

98 
96 
90 
40 
32 
54 
60 
70 
5i 
60 
85 



LEITH. 
to 70 

75 

80 

120 

112 
104 
94 
50 
1 33 6 
58 
68 
90 

75 
90 



Is Oil — 



2s 9 

3 5 
2 1 

4 6 



35 
36 
22 
25 
£7 

7 

8 

8 

9 
lis 

1 10 
3 

2 

1 9 

2 
23 

18 

9 
11 
45 
50 
41 



45 



38 

z:> 

52 
35 

9 

74 
5J 



5 8 
2 2 
4 8 



46 
48 
24 
CO 




10 
13s 
2 6 
4 
2 
2 
5 





7 

4 



24 

20 

10 6 

42 



46 



10 

8i 
6 



GLASGOW. 

65 '68 
69 70 



92 
92 



31 6 



— Os 

2s 9d 



1 5 

2 6^ 



41 



32 G 
30 
36 
36 



103 
98 



32 



lOid 
3s 



6 15 — 



10 ^ 



3 10 



41 6 



3» 
51 
37 



LIVERPOOL. 

64 66 
70 72 



50 
61 
71 
33 
58 
75 
54 
l(^d 



52 
70 
92 
55 
73 
86 
56 
lOJd 



2& 6d Os Od 



LONDON. 
63 €G 

67 7i 

72 7« 

86 90 

88 96 



79 
93 

34s. oa. 

48 
64 



86 

lai 



70 



£7 
6 15 
8 
8 



T 
I 



7 

8 










9 15 10 

10s 9 lis 9 

2 2 1 



2s 7d 3s 6A 
S 5 3 6 
1 9 1 11 



£18 

27 

i2 
25 
£7- 

7 

8 
7 

10- 
13 



1 

2 



1 





10 



39 



1 3 

2 8 
11 6 



39 6 



1 

6 



£52 
32 

32 

50 

7 10 



8"o 
U O 
14 6 



1 4 

1 11 



31 
50 



32 



7 9 
5 74 
3 4 



17 6 

7 



— 80 



£49 
42 

£50 
42 ' 



50 


£52 
55 



16 .. 

32 .« 

30 ' 32 

31 ' 32 

— 

7 » 

5 — 



104 1 0| 

9 10 

1 OJ 1 1| 

11 114 



1896.3 . AppoinimerdSy Promotions , SfC, " 

APPOINTMENTS, PROMOTIONS, &c. 



9^ 



./. .i 



Brevet Capt Hon, F. C. Stanhope, 73 F. MaJ. 
in the army, 27 Mar. 1825 

Rain*. 51 F. J 7 Nov. 

2Xife Gds. Capt. Barton, M^ hy pureh, vice Vys^ 

prom. 19 Oct. 

Lt. M'DouaU, Capt. do. 

Cor. and Sub. Lt. Sir W.Scott, Bt, Lt. 

do. 
II. L. Bulwer, Cor. and Sub. Lt. do. 
1 Dr. Gds. Capt Winllaco, M^i* by purch. vice 
Elton, prom. 5 Nov. 

Lt. Heed, Capt. do. 

i Lt. Stamcr, Capt. by purch. vice 

Whichcote, prom. 29 Oct. 

— Story, from 96 F. Lt. by purch. vice 
Shore, prom. 20 do. 

7 Cor. Daniel, Lt. by purch. and Adj. 

vice Doync, prom. 19 Nov. 

— — Bxiller, do. vice Pennefather, 
prom. 20 do. 

Surg. Blake, from 5 F. Surg, vice- 
Rose, ret. 13 do. 

. Lt. Hunter, from h. p. Paym, vice Law- 
rence, h. p. Ens. 3 Nov. 
i Dr. Surg. Jameson, from 75 F. Surg, vice 
. ' Young, cancelled, 22 Sept. 

I Ma). Grey, Lt. Col. by purch. vice 

Hankin, ret. 25 do. 

Brev. Lt. Col. U. W. M. Hill, Maj. do. 

l^t Fawcett, Capt. do. 

Cor. Hull, Lt. do. 

3 Lt Slade, Capt. by purch. vice Webb^ 

prom. 22 do. 

« C'or. Philips, Lt. do. 

C. W. M. Balders, Cor. 10 Nov. 

6 Lt. Gillies, from 91 F. Lt. by purch. 

vice M'Queen, prom. 27 Oct. 

Cor. Sheppard, firom Cape Corps Cav. 

Lt. by purch. vice Down, prom. 

10 Mar. 

9 F. Willio, Cor. by purdh. vice Rumley, 

prom. 3 do. 

I I Coi. LAurie, Lt by purch. vice Bishop* 

prom. 15 Oct 

T. H. Pearson, Cor. by purch. vice 

Asttey^ret 14 Mar. 

C. A. Lewis, do. do. 13 Oct 

13 Cor. Cuningham, Lt viee M*Kenzie, 

dead, 5 June. 1821 

Seij. Maj. Mao Mahon, Riding Master 

to the Cavalry Depot at Maidstone, 

Cor. 10 Nov. 1825 

16 Lt Curetcm* Capt by purch. vice EI> 

lis, prom. 12 do. 

1 F. Gds. Brev. CeL Lord SaItoun« M^. by purch. 

vice Jones, ret 17 do. 

Lt. and Ciqpt Clarke, Capt and Lt 

CoL do» 

Ens. and Lt Johnstone^ Lt. and Capt 

do. 

Jodrell, ftom 62 F. E^is. and Ltdo. 

Capt Vernon, Adj. vice Clarke, do. 
1 F. Capt Macdougall, from 1 Vet Bn. 

Capt 8 April, 1825 

Lt Sargent, from 1 Vet Bn. Lt do. 
Ens. Macpherson, do. by puich. vice 

Dixon, prom. 5 Nov. 

H. M. Dauyrople, Eds, dow 

Ens. Kerr, Lt by purdi. vice Biatthias, 

prom. 19 do. 

C*. Ford, Ens. do. 

Ens. and Adj. Richardson, Rank of Lt. 

3 do. 

4 Lt Rawstom^lhim 1 Yet Bn. Lt 

. 8 Apr. 

5 — Fleming, flrom do. do. do. 
As. Surg. Hamilton, firom 39 F. Surg. 

20 Oct 

6 Lt Pilkington, from 3 Yet Bn. Lt 
. vice Bowlby, 90 F. 8 Apr. 

Ens. Eyre, from 3 Vet Bn. Lt by 

purch. vice Stuart, prom. 5 Nov. 

W . Curt«s, Ens. do. 

7 Ens. Oeilvi& from 28 F. Ltby purch. 

vice Lennox, prom. 27 Oct 



8 



9 



10 



II 

12 
14 

16 



17 



18 



19 



21 



23 
23 



24 



26 



27 
28 



29 



30 
32 
33 



34 
3^ 
37 



Brev, Mf^. Lyslcr, from 3 Vet Bn. 

Capt " 8 Apr. . 

J. Howard, Ens. by purch. vice De- 

shon, 33 F. 12 Nov. 

Ens. Browne, from 1 Yet Bn. Eiis. 

7 Apr. 
— — Thomas, Lt by purch. vice Day. 

rell, prom. 10 Nov. 

G. Wrmht, Ens. do. 

Ens. MaxwcU, from 1 Yt Bn. Ens. 

7 Anf.. 

Russell, from do. do. do. ' 

Hosp. Ass. Giffhcy, Acs. Surg, vice 

Evers, 86 F. 10 Nov 

Lt M'Grath, from 2 Vet Bn. Lt 

8 Apr. 
Ens. Crocker, from do. Ens. 7 do. 
Hosp. As. Tighe, As. Surg. 20 Oct 

- ■■ Drysdale, do. vice Alexan- 
der, res. 10 Nov. 
Ens. Hon. F. Forbes, from 84 F. Lt by 

puTchrf vice Frazsr, prom. 5 do. 

Hosp. As. Frazcr, As. Surg, vice Mar« 

tindalc; prom. - 10 do. 

Ens. Peel, Lt hy purch. iHce Macpher- 

son, 91 F; ' 20 Oct 

Dwyer, from 3 V6t Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 

Foxhea, do. by purch. 20 Oct 

Capt Dobbin, Mai. vice Linn, dead, 

3 Nov. 
Lt. Hamilton, Capt do. ' 

Ens. Robertson, Lt do. 

W. Bernard, Ens. 17 do. 

Lt Boyle, from h. p. 27 F. Paym. vice 

Creser, h. p. do. 

Capt Camphell, Maj. by purch. vice 

Thomas, prom. 27 do. 

Lt Peddie, Capt do. 

2d Lt Beet, 1st Lt do. 

Gent Cadet, A, Webber, from R. MiL 

Col. 2d Lt do. 

D. R. Smith, Ens. 3 do. 

Cant Harrison, MiO* hy purch. vice 

England, prom. 29 Oct. 

Lt WaUer, Capt ' do. ' 

2d Lt Beauclerk, Lt do. 

H. R. H. C. Elves, 2d Lt do^ 

Ens. Robinson, Lt by purch. vice Dar- 

roch, prom. 19 Nov. 

A. G. Blackford, Ens. by purch. vice 

Sturgeon, prom. 12 do. 

Hon, C. Preston,, do. by purch. vice 

Robinson. 19 do. 

Ens. Brehaut Lt by purch. Vice 

M'Niven^ 29 F. 29 Oct 

J. Guthrie, Ens. do. 

Ens. Freame, from 3 Yet Bn. Ens. 

7 Apr. 
Greene, from 33 F. Ens. vice Ogil- 

vie, prom. 27 Oct 

Hosp, As. O'Brien, As. Surg, vice Pox- 

telli, cane. do. 

Lt M*Niven, from 26 F. Capt by 

purch. vice Chambers, prom. 29 do. 
Denies, do. by purvh. vice M*Ni- 

ven.80F. . 19 Nov. 

Wright, Ens. vice Battley, dead, 

17 do. 
J. J. Burgoyne, Ens. by purch. vice 

Markham, prom. 26 Oct 

Lt O'Neill, from 2 Vet Bn. Lt vice 

Bars, prom. 9 Apr. 

—— Puke, Ens. by purch. vice Greene, 

28 F. "^ 27 Oct 

Lt Whanndl, Capt vice Sutherland, 

dead, 3 Nov. 

— < Robertson, from Ceylon R^. Lt 

17 da 
En. Houston, Lt by piurdi. vice Swe- 

ney, prom. 19 do. 

T. Christmas, Ens. by purch. vice 

Cumberland, 96 F. 20 do. 

R. Burke, Ens. by puich. vice Ralston. 

66 F. 29 Oct 



100 

39 
41 

42 

43 



Appainiments, FronioiioHS, ^c* 



Ih 



45 



48 



49 
50 

51 



53 



55 

57 
58 
CO 



Ci 



65 
70 



72 



73 
74 
75 



Hotp. As. Mair, As. Stng. vio« HamiU 

ton. 5 F. 10 NoT- 

LL Webb, from h. p. 86 F. Lt. vioe 

Spencer, 18 F. 20 Oct. 

Hosp. As. DartnaD, As. Surg, vice 

Mos^, 81 F. • dOw 

Ens. Childers, Lt. by jmrch. rice Gos* 

sip, prom. 12 Nov. 

— Magra, from 77 F. EIns. do. 
Ens. Macdonald, Lt. by purch. vice Ho- 
garth, prom. 26 do. 

A. Campbell, Ens. dOb 

W. A. Ward, Ens. by purch. vice Up- 
ton, prom. 29 Oct. 

Lt Esteourt, Capt by purch. vice Hop- 
kins, prom. 5 Nov. 

Ens. Sir R. Fletdier, Bt, Lt. do. 

W. Bell. Ens. do. 

Lt. O'Meara, from h. p. Afr. Corps. 
Paynwice Webb. h. p. 20 Oct. 

Hosp. As. Tower, As. Surg, vice Camp- 
bell, cane 10 Nov. 

Lt. Weston. Capt. by purch. vicfe 
Brooke, ret. 21 Oct. 

— C. F. Sweeny, from 3 Yet. Bn. Lt. 
vice Hay, 51 F. 9 Apr, 

Hosp. As. Duncanson, As. Surg. 27 Oct. 
Hosp. As. Ellison, As. Surg. 20 Oct, 
Capt. Ross, Mi^. by purch. vioe Keyt, 

prom. 5 Nov. 

Lt. Matthews, CapL do. 

Ens. Gordon, Lt. do. 

C. A. Amey, Ens. do. 

Lt. Love, Capt. vice Hewitt, dead, 

13 Oct. 
Lt. Bentham. Adj. do. 

— Smart, ficom 25 F. Lt. vice I^vc, 
prom. 3 Nov, 

— Carpenter, Capt. by purch. vice 
O'Grady, prom. 29 Oct. 

Ens.Philipps, Lt. by purch. 17 Nov. 

J. St Clair Doyle, Ens. do. 

Hosp. As. Council, As. Surg, vice Mac- 
lean, prom. 10 do. 

Morgan, do. 27 Oct. 

Ens. CumberLand, Lt. by purch. vice 
Mackay, ret. 13 do. 

G. Bowles. Ens. do. 

Capt. Welman, from 1 Vet. Bn. Cap. 

8 Apr. 

Ens. Man, Lt. by piuxh. vice Steven- 
son, prom. 17 Nov. 

Brev. Maj. Hamilton, from 1 Vet. Bn. 
Capt. 9 April 

Brev. Lt Col. GaliflTe, Lt Col. 18 June 

Brev. Maj. Im Thum, Maj. do. 

Lt Hcslop, Capt do. 

Lt. Hemsworth, from 2 vet. Bn. Lt 

7 Apr. 

Ens. Thompson, from h. p. Ens. vice 
Dely. 1 W. I. R. 20 Oct. 

F. Lecky. Ens. by purch. vice JodreU, 
Gren. Gds. 17 Nov. 

Capt Andrew Dilln, frsm 2 Vet Bn. 
Capt 8 Apr. 

Hosp. As.Thompson. As. Surg. 27 Oct 

Ens. Draper, Lt by purch. vice Brown, 
prom. 19 Nov, 

C. S. Barker, Ens. do. 
Lt Hunt, Capt by purch. vice Wood, 

prom. 29 Oct. 

Lt Kirwan, do. by purch. vice Dunbar, 

37 F. do. 

Ens. Ralston, from 37 F. Lt do. 

P. W. Braham, Ens. by purch. vice 

Howard. Coldst Gds. 22 do. 

Ens. Reed, Lt. by purch. vice Laing, 

prom. 19 Nov. 

Gent Cadet C. TroUope, from R. Mil. 

Coll. Ens. do. 

D. T. Barton, Ens. by purch. vice 
Campbell, prom. 29 Oct. 

Surg. Clarke, from Cape Corps, Surg. 

vice White, h. p. 20 do. 

Capt. Hall. Maj. by putch. vice Middle- 

ton. prom. 19 Nov. 

Eus. Widdrington, Lt. by piurch. vice 

26 do. 

2 Vet Bn. Ens. 

7 April 

from 51 F. Surg. 

22 Sei>. 



77 



Wicfey, prom. 
Ens. Keanics. from 

As. Surg. Graham 
vice James, 1 Dr. 



80 
bl 



63 
84 
86 
87 



68 
89 



90 
91 



Em. Fofter, tttm. 1 W* L R* lit ^hm 

ManhaU, dewl 90 0«U 

Hosp. Aik Muluro, Ai. Sui^ ^ 

Lt CorfieM, Capt. vjm J^bef, dead 

9 Nov. 

— Buchan, from 91 F. Capt viee PS- 
gott dead 10 do. 

C F. B. Jones» Ena. by puidu vioft 
. Maffra. 41 F. 12 do. 

Ens. Dillon, from 93 F. Lt. viee Ca* 

field, 17 do. 

Cant. M'Niven, from 29 F. Capt viete 

Butler, prom. 19 do. 

As. Surg. Mostyn, from 41 F. Surg. 

vice Cogan, h. p. 20 Oct 

H. S. Jones, Ens. by purch. vice 

Hope, pnnn. 27 do. 

Capt Burgess, from 2 Vet Bn. Capt. 

8 April 
C. Adair, Ens. by purch. Tioe Forbes> 

17 F. 5 Nov. 

As. Sura. Avers, from 14 F. As. Surg. 

vice E^iring, cane. v 10 do. 

Ens. Smith, Lt viee Irvine, dead do. 
C. F. Parkinson, Ens. do. 

Ens. Doyle, Lt by purch. vioe Ship» 

ret 3 do. 

R. Dudley, Ens. 10 do. 

Lt. Woouard, Adj. vioe Soutar, res. 

Adj. only 20 Oct. 

Lt Butler, from 1 Vet Bm Lt vice 

Blayney, Rifle Bri^ 9 April. 

.— Stuart, Capt vice Camion, Idlled in 

action ' 8 Mar. 

— Apfin. do. vice Rose, do. 9 do. 
Ens. Olpherts, Lt 8 do. 
— — Arrow, Lt 9 do. 
E. S. Miles, Ens. 10 Nov. 
G. S. Layard, do. 11 do. 
Hosp. As. Hathwaite. As. Sin^. 10 do. 
Capt. Rivers, from 3 Vet Bn. Capt 

8 April 
Lt Macpherson, from 18 F. Capt by 
purch. vice Richardson, ret 20 Oct. 
Ens. Foskey, Lt vice Robeson, dead 

10 Sept. 

10 Nov. 

Lt vice Buchanan*. 

17 do. 

do. 

by purdi. vice M'- 

19 do. 

do. 

J. H. Smith, do. vice Dillon, 77 F. 

17 do. 
Hosp. As. Bulteel, As. Surg. 27 Oct. 
Ho^. As. Ore, do. . 10 Nov. 

Eds. Hope, from 81 F. Lt. by purch. 
vice Story, 6 Dr. Gds. 27 Oct 

Hosp. As. Smithy As. Surg, do. 

Lt Hunter, from h. p, 60 F. Lt 

, 17 Nov. 

Brev, Maj. J<^mston, Maj. bypunh. 

vice Dodgin, ret do. 

Lt Mair. from 64 F. Capt do. 

Rifle Brig. Lt Woodford, Capt by purdi. vice 

Percival prom. 29 Oct 

2d Lt Stewart. 1st Lt do. 

J. Benyon. 2d Lt do. 

2d Lt T. S. Beckwith, Ist Lt by purch. 

vice Byrne, prom. 10 Nov. 

T. H. Mackimum, 2d Lt do. 

Lt. Norcott, Adj. do. 

1 W. I. R. Ens. Dely. from 62 F. 1^. vice Por- 

ter, 77 F. 22 Oct 

Lt. Kent, from h» p. 60 F. Paym. vice 

Mackay, h. p. 3 Nov. 

2 S. J. Hill, Ens. vice Watson, dead 

10 do. 

Ceylon R. Lt Phelan, fW>m h. p. 44 F. Lt vice 

Whitaker, cane. 20 Oct 

— Keogh. from h. p. 44 F; do. 3 ^lov. 
Cape Corps As. Surg. Parrott, from Prov. Bn. 

Surg, vice Clarke. 72 F. 20 Oct 

Ens. Brown, from 74 F. Cor. by purch. 

vice Sheppard. 6 Dr. 10 Nov. 

Ordnance DeparimerU. 

Royal Artillery. 

2d Capt Forsfcer. from h. p. 2d Capt 

vice Bowlby. h. p. 13 Oct. 

2d Lt Sbvcm^ Ut Lt vice Giant, h. p. 

21 do. 



93 



94 
95 
96 

98 



99 



D. Cahil, Ens. 
Ens. Williamson, 

77 F. 
M« Kane, Ens. 
Ens. Crowe, Lt 

Nichol, prom. 
C. Herbert. Ens. 



1B9S>3 AppoirUiMiUf, PrOBWiioM, i^. 

Hk, LLCaLirlaEteliwIaa, Lt. Dajtodi, boi « F. 

SNo¥. — linuon, ftom 51 F. 



0-P*Mn, 114. vice Unett, 

vvt- dch CBiDpbeU, Aom 7^ F- 

Id Cipb CnttmdEU, Clpt. - do, StuiuHio, taaa 11 F. ] 

Shq^ud Oom h. p. M Cipt Newion, from S F. 

db. Cor. Alexuider, from 13 Dr. 

Eoual Bwtiucri. Ta bt Bniigat iypurdUut. 

d^ '"' '" "■ '"" ^■^' G™LC»detWilEie,(miB.H 



le AnoT, Tin Blake. r». Bt. LC. CoL KonpeKli, ftom IS F. with Kajat 

XO Oct. Chvnben. h. p. 

Brei.-Mnj. BMot, 6R P. M^dr of Brt- M»]of Brotmlow, ftom 7» F. wlUi JHot Naber- 

3«d SB Beat. CwC Locke, l>om IT Dr. rec. diK vUb Cspt 

ntn'touf'ftoin S3 F. reo. dilt wilh Capl. 






Cunpbell, do. vice Kennedy, pjj[^ ),. p."'' 

i^'uTK. M'Andrew fn>in h. ^^F ''"'■ '"'" '^ 



F. nc ililT. with Capt. 



■ Coion, ftom RfBa Brig. wiUl Capt, 
^mw!SSJi ?f' *"' **■ ^"*""'IJ! LifXvri;.?^. ftom e F. IK. ditt .1th Lteul. 
S" 5S!lii!°K '^"' *" '^ -i^ilSnti™™™ 7'f.with Lieul. /foi.. C. 

. ■ piS^'.iX' ^ Blarney. Rifie Bri^ 

A- CallnDdcr. do. . do. 






do. 




— Stefan, tkontxi: 








do. 






do. 




— Wigley, ft^ 71 F. 


19 do: 




rSStSi','?:'- 


d^ 


— 


— Laing, from 70 F. 


do. 


JukKNi, h. 


-EmSood,Crom«F. 


do. 


U Grand, 


-iI'Ni«l,ft™93F. 




M..Hlcd,h 


-I/™.H.M.UpUin.ftom 


''^%. 


Pollard, h. 

01rord.h. 

Clukc,h. 


-S»«iy.f»in34F. 


~ChmtBe.tmalF. 


do. 


^— CUikc,h. 



Appoialmetdt, Promotiom, Sfe. t^^* 

'''^i!^'i?^'^ft"°"'""' tin*.LoMen,W«iltoe.eer.l»D<)niiB,H.. 

' Firaieh, h. p. Unttt, udtot 4 OeL 

'■>■ Qimn, h;p,71P. 1Jdiu,1H4 

i.TGn. Bn. ShQn,h.p.H™Uh«irtCiira«.lTJiiBe,lM3 

11. NoMScotUFm. -; — W»llop, h. p. 7 Gn. Bn. )7 JmlSH 

BIF. 11 Deo. 

P- M F. — Ulchanl Irvine, 87 F- Fort WUHim. Ben- 



— C-ratty, h. IL 3 Ccyt. K. SStfL. 
—^ B»ekcRan» h. n. UnatL 

rvM LUiyd, It.^ lloiH Gib. Hydt Puk Bit- 
■cki Hot. 
— ' Orcy*ley. h. p. 19 Dr. 6 ScqiL 
rjojd, llny«i HoneOili. 19 Nor. 

— llBmey, Afi. Col. L'oii*, Sian Lome 






rg. roMc, IJF. Bellamy, h. p. W«ll'*Corin eUcLIBtS 



.n,li.MJ3r. 

IT Oct. mi. 

llckoiii, h. p. 87 F. 



Oaiffu_ Cnmmissarial Deparlmeal. 



c, t8 F. Miulru 7 June, IBM 






ieOrt DcHuliOm, h. p. Inraetot 7M»t 

^IlewiH, h,n,PortSiTi-. Ml July A>. Surg. fReiHy, StslT, Hylhe BuTHki 15 Nm. 

Bronnie, ni F. Foit Willtom Bcuijsl. Lcich, SI F. gn boud the iDdlwia H«. 

Major Johiuon. 19 F. Chatham tINav. pital Shin, near Camp KnylungdoeE II Uir. 

l-ayne, h. p. 19 llr 10 July Hoip. At WlUlamion, Itlc da Sma, Aft™ 

WaltnScod, h.p.eHF. njDlr. 

l^t. PigoO, 77 F. saxi Hill, Janulia. PUIOhd, li'.a it Sou, AfiVa H An( 



BIRTHS, MAKltlAGES, AND DEATHS. 

l^Ay, At No. II, ncudy Place 
Cookaoo, of a daiuhtar. 
— A( Madrai, Die i^ady of P. 

Esq. of a dau^ter. 

ime, if a ii^hCr" ' """ _ MAnRIAnes. 

7jA[SI,Yoiki'la^, Ida Andri"^a<nc 

Til. A117. Dublin Smrt, Mil Stuart, oft . __. _ 

IS. At Klrkaldy, Mre Meniiei, of a un. third ku oT Ibr 

— At Rockv^twuK, Law Tario, Hn H'- to Uiaa Juia Blp 

19. At Duotau Stmt, DninuDond Place, Un 
Itobeit KirkwDiHl, of adaufhter. 
11. At7S, Gicac King Street, Mr» J. A. Chejne, 



loniliay, CipUIn Bruc* 

. liteSrAleiuAetBMa 

Blphhuiaiw daughter of J 

pUoitoii, Eaq.ortheClTllStniBiiiidkl 

ber of Cauoetl at BmlbaTi 

Juiv 1. At St TlunuA Haunt, Madn 



IS. At TayHetf, HnDenj, ofiKnl. chant; Lrtlb. 

19. At KnuiDgloo, th« lady of Dr Wallet S. Od. 14. At SUpperflcld. Tbonu Jaduon, Eaq. 

Monou, of a ion. otBroaiahBl,t(i/aM, third daughter <tf MtSt 

-~ AtNchX, OllnuncPlace, UnBaUbur.oT B nun Linton, merdiaoL'Blnir. 

KHi. ». At Hull, MrAleuiidir Andema. wiv 

;l. At Edinburgh, Mn Audcnon, Walker merchant, PathlUBd, FilMilrfc to Uary, lUid 

Street, ofaBOD. daiu^na tt Mi John Hinet. tinber nerehanb 

96. UraGreig, Lothian Vale, of a daughter. UulL 

■Hi. Ai Dunbar, Hn Wiiliaui H. Hitcblo, of B U. At JaekioB'a Cottn|e, ncu nnmMH. mL. 

dau^ler. liam Bniei^ Bvi. younger of BTDit 

!^ At Gnat Yanaoulh, Hn Capt. R. M. Bai- to Agnea, aecond daughln of' W 

elay.royalnavv, of adaughicT. ""■ — "— '- i--#.i..ij.. 

^ At LardigTave, Pcai Cdintniigh, 

lison, Df a daughter. .« »—..--«—... 

— Mn A. Steremon, Walker Street, Coato »7. At St Fort, in Ihe county of Fife, W. F. 
Crocent, of a <Uuehtcr. Blackett. Eiq. to CathHliie, daogtatec of Ihc late 

SB. Mrfl Lnnflof Bmonihill, of a daughter. Bohcrt Stewart* Em- of St Fort. 

— AtLlukllcid.Uieiadyof WilliamAilebiion, — At Newhalii flouM:, Robert Mercer, Sn. 

«■ in. Etfl. of 8 lou, whicn luttlvcd only a few youngerof SoMabank, wiiterlolhcugBCt, toEH- 

DUTb inbctli.daiiGhtciarwllhamSfottHaBciteCbf. 

30. At EdinbutgR.ihelailyaf JnicphUutniy VS. Al IliMcluiugh Houw, RoiHfatr*, Jbmi 

Esq-younscrof AytDun, of sdaughUr. Walker, Eiq. of Liidrv, aduocalo, IoHImUHIm 



Fttxrt>y, aecoi 



Ghoreh, London, Loni Lnane 
n of the Uuksof Gnfton. to On 



id26.;] 



Marriages and JDeMs» 



lOS 



Maekenile, youaoest daughter of the late Rode* 
rick Mackenzie, Kia, of Scotsbum. 

3L At Kelso, Robert Bruce, Esq. chief xnagi- 
stmte, and writer in Kclso, to Mrs Murray, widow 
of James Murrav, Esq. civil engineer. 

31. At Kinlocn, Charles Guthiie, Esq. younger 
'Of Taybank, to Margaret, second daughter of Geo. 
Kmloch, Esq. of Kinlocb. 

Nor. I. At Edinburgh, John Sinclair Cunning- 
luun, Esq. inspector of branches of the Commer- 
cial Bank of Scotland, to Janet, eldest daug^hter of 
the late Rev. James Rhind, minister of Whitburn. 

— At Edinburgh, Mr James Edington, mer- 
chant, Leith, to Catharine; eldest daughter of the 
late Mr John Richardson, builder, Pr. stonpans. 

— At Glasgow, James Wilson, Esq. Bannock- 
bum, to Mary, youngest daughter of the late Mr 
William Lennox. 

— At Fort William, Alexander Macdonell, 



Feb, S& At tM, WHUfuq fimaU» Eki. purser of 
the General Kyd, East Indiamani youngest soa 
of the late Andrew Smtf 1, Esq of Dimanean. .. 

April 15. At Rangoon, Lieut. Williamson, of 
his Majesty'^ Royal Regiment. 

May 1. At Kandy, Alex. Moon, Esq. SuperiOf 
tendant of the Royal Botanic Garden, Ceylon. 

8. AtCuddapah, Madras, Captain H.Miller« of 
the 8th Regiment, N. I. 

23. At Meerut, William Beveridge, of the Hon. 
East India Company's Service, Bengal Establish- 
ment, eldest son ot the late William Beveridge, - 
Esq. W. S. 

June 1. At Madras, Capt Felix Robson, in the 
service of the Blast India Company, on the Madras 
Establishment. ' 

3. At Fort William, in the East Indies, in con< 
sequence of an accident in a buggy, with a restive 
horse, Lieut.-Colonel H. R. Browne, command- 



Esq. Inch, to Mary Isabella, eldest daughter of ing his Majesty's 87th Raiment. 



Duncan Stewart, Esq. of Achnacand, Collector 
of his Majesty's Customs at Fort William. 

S. At Edinburgh, James Gilliland Simpson, of 
Bush Lane and Islington, London, to Jane, only 
child of the late Mr Thomas Horsburgh of Lee, 
Peebles-shire. 

2. At Greenock, James Smith, Esq. Birming- 
ham, to EHizabeth, youngest daughter of Thomas 
Nimmo, Esq. of Auchinblain. 

8. At Mary-la-Bonnc Church, London, Sir John 
Thomas Claridgc, Recorder of Prince of Wales's 
Island, to Miss M. P. Scott, eldest daughter of 
Vice-Admlral Scott. 

— At Collonsay House, James J. Duncan, Esq. 
Craigend, to Mary, eldest daughter of John Mac- 
neill of Collonsay, Esq. 

— At Ellicston, the Rev. P. Craw, minister of 
St Boswell's, to Elizabeth, youngest daughter of 
the deceased William Dunbar, Esq. of Forres. 

— • At Edinburgh, Archibald Gibson, Esq. ao> 
countant, to Harriet, youngest daughter of the 
late James Newbigging, of Whitehouse, Esq. 

1 }. At Edinburgh, Mr WiUiam Wallace, Khi- 
ross, to Isabella, daughter of Mr Blackwood, tan- 
ner, Kinross. 

—'At Minto, Roxburghshire, J. P. Boileau, 
iun. Esq. eldest son of J. P. Boileau, Esq. of Mort- 
lake, Surry, to Lady Catherine Elhott, daughter 
of the bte, and sister of the present Earl of 
Minto. 

— At Naples, Sir James Cam^e of Southesk, 
BarL to Miss Charlotte Lysons, second daughter 
of the Rev. Daniel Lysons of Hampstead Court, 
Glocestershirc. 

21. At Falkirk, Mr John Risk, iun. Camelon, 
to Marion, third daughter of Mr Thomas John- 
ston, stationer. 

•— At Kirkton, William CuUen, Esq. surgeon, 
Carluke, to Jacobina Steuart, second surviving 
daughter of the late Charles Hamilton, Esq. of 
FaiHiolm and Kirkton, Lanarkshtre. 

22. At Stirling, the Rev. James Gilfillan, to 
Margaret, eldest daughter of the late William Tel- 
ford, Esq. 

— At Llanfaes Church, county of Anglesea, 
Alexander Anderson, Esq. Captain in the Madras 
Engineers, to Mary Margaret, eldest daughter of 
John Hampton Hampton, Esq. of Henlys. 

— Andrew Barclay, Esq. second son of the 
late William Barclay, Esq. of his Majesty's Navy 
I*ay oflice, to Isabella, youngest daughter of Wil- 
liam Crcelman, Esq. Portobello. 

2i. At Ilosehill, Hants, Colonel Thackery, of 
the Royal Engineers, to the Right Hon. Lady Eli- 
zabeth Camcgy, daughter of the Earl of North- 
esK. 

23. At Kelso, Mr Thomas Sibbald, ironmonger, 
Edinburgh, to Ann, daughter of William Elliott, 
Esq. architect, Kelso. 

2'J. At Torbanehill, the Rev, James Monilaws, 
of Annan, to Isabella Luke, eldest daughter of the 
late John Smcllie, Esci. of Torbaneliili. 

Dec. 1. At Edinburgh, the Rev. Alexander Fer- 
guson, Tobermory, to Catherine, daughter ot the 
tote Mr Allan IkLncdonald, Dariroch, Mull. 

LaMi/, Thomas Aitchison Latta, M .D, Leith, 
to M ^ry, youngest and only surviving child of the 
late John Milur, Esq. 

DEATHS. 
Jan. 12, 1825. At sea, Lieutenant-Colonel Com- 
mandant James Giurdiier, 51st Raiment of Ben- 
gal Native Infantry. 

7 



7. At the Presidency, Madras, Colopel James 
Erskine, C. B. of his M^esty's 48th Foot. 

— At Indore, of cholera, John Warner, Esq. 
surgeon of the 13th Renment Native Infantry. 

12. At Arcot, in the Presidency of Madras, M4f 
ry Ann Cathcart, wife of Alexander Bruce, Esq. 
youngest son of Sir William Bruce of Stenhousew 
Bart. 

— At Arcot, Lieut. George Cheape, youngest 
son of John Cheape, Esq. of Rossie. 

Aug. In Westmorland, Jamaica, Dr John Nis* 
bett. 

Sept, 4. At Geneva, state of New York, Mr T^ 
Sym, late of East Briech. 

9. At Koniek, Caramania, (the ancient Icon!- 
um,) a^ed 32, Thomas Ayre Bromhead, Esq. late 
of Chrisf s CoD^e, Cambridge, only son of the 
Rev. Edward Bromhead, of Repham, near Lin- 
c(4n. This entcrprizing traveller, after an absence 
of five years from his native country, was hasteii- 
Ing homewards, when arrested by a sudden iukI 
fatal disease. He breathed his last with no other 
attendants than his foreign servants, or the imci- 
vilized natives. One qf the companions of Mr 
Bromhead's travels, the Rev. Joseph Cook, Fel- 
low of Christ's College, died on a camel under al- 
most as melancholy circumstances, near the Palm 
Trees of EUm, in March ; and tire other, Henry 
Lewis, Esq. R. N., after traversing Palestine in 
his company, parted from him at Beirut, in June* 
and returned to England. 

Oct, 3. At L^hom, from the bite of a spider, 
Lewis Henderson, Esq. merchant, brother to A. 
Henderson, Esg. artist, Glasgow. 

19. At Erskine, the Hon. Caroline Henrietta 
Stuart, youngest daughter of Lord Blantyre« 

20. In the Barraclu at Norwich, Lieut CoL Sir 
Thomas Hankin, of the Scots Greys. 

— At Saxe-Cobui^ Place, Mrs Margaret Bar- 
clay, wife of John Sim, EscJ. accountant of the 
Bank of Scotland. 

21. At Paris, Mrs Renny, Tallyour, of Borrow- 
field, eldest daughter of the late Sir Alex. Ram- 
say of Balmain, Bart. 

— At his father's house, Leith Walk, Mr Jas. 
Stirling. 

22. At Elder Street, Miss Isabella Page. 

— At St Petersburgh, the celebrated astrono- 
mer Schubert, in the 68th year of his age. 

23. At Lyons, in France, Mary, youngest 
daughter of the late Mr John Honeyman, merch- 
ant m Londoiu 

— At Edinburgh, Mr John Barclay, of /the 
Lord Nelson Hotel, Adam Square. 

— - At Forres, Mrs Justina Dunbar, widow of 
George Gun Munro, Esq. of Pointsfield. 

24. At her house, Broughton, Mrs Margaret 
Lendrum, relict of Mr Peter Fairley, in the 91st 
year of her a^e. 

— At Leith, Mr Walter Bruce, wright and 
builder there. 

— At Hawttiomden, Mrs Mary Ogilvy Forbes 
Drummond of Hawthomden, wife of Captain 
John Forbes Drummond of the Royal Navy. 

— At Ramsay Lodge, Miss Isabella Elder, aged 
13 months, daughter of Isaac Baylay, Esq. 

25. At Leith Walk, Mrs Forrest, relict of Mr 
David Forrest, soUcitor, Suinrraae Courts. 

26. In Upper Harley Street, London, Walter 
Fawkes, Eso. of Famlcy Hall, Yorkshire, lie 
was a descendant of the celebrated conspirator of 
tliat name, and prided himself not a little on his 
pedigree. 



104 



Deaths* 



(;Jfiii. 



<& At Nekon Street, Adam Henry Crichton. 
Moond «m of Mr Hew Cxichton, writer. 

— At Edinlmrgh, Mrs Mary Crokett, relict of 
Mr James Murray, solidtor-at-Iaw. 

— At Dalkeith, Mr Andrew Grey, baker, in the 
6Sd year of his age. 

27. At Preston Matau, Mr John Dam, aged 90 
years. 

— At Kinncdder, Mrs Anne Haly, of Kinned> 
der, relict of Mr William Calleuder, merchant in 
Edinburgh. 

— At Southampton, Capt. Alexander Richard 
Mackenzie, of the Royal Navy. 

28. At Banff, Mr John Richardson, painter 

there. 

29. At Ayr, Mrs Colonel Mackenzie. 

» At Berwick, aged 6t, John Halt, Esq. M.D. 

30. At Bridgend, near Sanquhar, Thomas Bar- 
ker, Esq. 

— At Culross, Henry Brown, Esq. of Prathouse. 

— At No. 15, Lynedoch Place, Robert Henry, 
aged 18 months, youngest child of Robert Paul, 
Esq. secretary of the Commercial Bank. 

— At Uolb, aged 6 years, James Haig, son of 
tiie late James Haig, jun. Esq. Sunbury. 

— At Quecnsferry, Mrs Mary Muir, wife of Mr 
Walter Wilson. 

31. At King Edward, the Rev. Dr Robert Duff, 
in the 87th year of liis age, and Gist of his mini- 
stry. 

Nov. 1. At Lcith, John, youngest son of the 
1^ Mr Jolm Douglas, shipmaster there. 

3. John, only son of Mr James Winkwortb, 
bookbinder. 

' — At Woolwich, Mrs Bonnycastle, widow of 
Professor Bonnycastle, of the Royal Military 
Academy. 

— In Wimiwie Street, London, Anne, wife of 
Captain C. S. J. Hawtayne, of the Royal Navy. 

. — At Edinburgh, E^nsign David Jameson, of 
the Fifeshire militia. 

— At Edinburgh, Margaret, second daughter of 
the late Mr George Porteous, merchant, Edin- 
burgh. 

4. At the Manse of Dunse, Andrew, ddcst son 
of the Rev. George Cunningham. 

— At Fevershara, Westmorland, Henrietta, wife 
of the Rev. Dr Lawson, Vicar of that parish, and 
daughter of the late Alexander Ranalson, Esq. of 
Blairhali, Perthshire. 

5. At Oolingsburgh, Mr Arthur Edie, late far- 
mer at Muircambus. 

— At Mayfield, Mr Alexander Robertson, fifth 
son of the late James Robertson, Esq. W. S. 

— At Lauricston Place, aged 58, John Clap- 
pcrton, Esq. merchant in Edinburgh. 

6. At Edmburgh, Mrs Helen Duncan, relict of 
Mr Alexander Stevenson, one of the depute clerks 
of the Court of Session. 

— At Ardardan, Dumbartonshire, after a few 
days' illness, Claud Ncilson, Esq. 

7. At Ills house, Bonuington Place, John Boyd, 
Esq. 

— At Perth, Margaret, youngest daughter of 
Capt. Menzics, 68th Regiment. 

8. At Ayr, Captain David Hunter, in the 80th 
year of his age. 

— At Clayquhat, Perthshire, Mrs Janet Mit- 
chell, wife of Wm. Spottiswoode, Esq. 

10. At Aberdeen, in the GOth year of his age, 
Mr James Cromar, rector of the grammar school 
there. 

— At Edinburgh, Mr Ndl Whyte, late of 
Greenock, after a few days' illness. 

— At Kirkaldy, Mrs Konaldson, widow of Mr 
Andrew Ronaldson, writer there. 

11. At Jamaica Street, Edinburgh, Mr Charles 
Robertson. 

— At Edinburgh, aged six years and 9 months, 
Charlotte Frances, third daughter of John Hamil- 
ton Colt, Esq. 

12. At Gainslaw House, Berwick, Ralph Gil- 
roy, Esq. late of Jamaica. 

— At Ormiston, East Lothian, Mrs Margaret 
Rcddic, widow of John Thomson, Esq. of Prior 
Letham, merchant in Leith. 

— At Moray Street, Ldtli Walk, Mr W. Knox, 
the author of the Songs of Israel ; The LcHiely 



Hwitht TheHarpofZioo; A VUttoDuUia; 
Marianne, or ttie Widower's Daughter i ftod • 
ercac variety of contributions in the Edinbiugh 
Magazine, and other publicationa. 

13. At Allaliabad, Lieut-Coloiid Camplldl* of 
the 32d Regiment Native Infiintry. 

— At her liouse, George Square, Mra Chaoe 
Grseme. daughter of the late David Gmne, Biq. 
advocate. 

-- At Kirkaldy, in her 15th year, Elizabeth, 
only child of the late Rev. James Huttoo, mtaii^ 
sterof Beath. 

— At her house, Edinburgh, Mrs Douglas 
Dickson, of Hartree, widow (Mf Andrew Douglas, 
Esq. 

— At Ldth, Mr Malcolm Wright. 

II. At Kirkaldy, Mr James Greig, aged 77. 
~ At Edinburgh, John Fuller, Esq. M. D. late 
of Eterwick-on-Twecd. 

— Mrs Marion Grahame, wife of John Lang of 
Harthope, writer in Glasgow. 

— At Monteith Row, Glasgow, aged SO, Ann, 
eldest daughter of Mr Archbald Fultarton, book- 
seller. 

— At his house, North Castle Street, lames 
M'Farlane, Esq. of BalwilL 

17. At Aberdeen, Alex. Innes, Esq. turgeoo. 

18. Miss Sharp of Kinearathie. 

— At her house in London, Mrs Sarah EUIiot^ 
widow of Archibald Elliott^ Eisq. ardiitect. 

19. At her house, Gloucester Place, Miss Gatiia- 
rine Glassford, daughter of the lale John GlaM* 
ford, Elsq. of Dougalston. 

— At Edinburgh, Mary, daughter of Lieuten* 
ant-Colonel Leatnem, 38, George Square* 

— At Nenthom, William Roy. Esq. -of Nen* 
thorn, and, on the 21st, his daughter Isal)dla» 
aged lO years. 

20. At Broadlyes, Mrs Agnes Beatson, xeBct of 
Mr Peter Kilgour, late of Balgedie, Fife. 

— At 16, James's Square, Jolm Patisonu Esq. 
advocate, many years one of tlic assesscHrs for tbe 
city of Edinburgh. 



— At Capehoch, in the 85th year of his age, 
rilliam Kirkp:itidk, Esq. youngest sonof thede- 
ccased Thomas Kirkpatrlck of Closebum, Bart. 



21. At Edinburgh, Mrs Christian Orptioot, iract 
of Mr Thomas Henderson, Jun. merdiant* I^yal 
Exchange. 

— At Na 5, Antigua Street, Miss Elder, dau^b* 
tcr of the late Thomas Elder, Esq. of Fonseth* 

— At Strathmiglo, Mrs Elizabeth GardhOa re« 
lict of Mr David Gardner, brewer there. 

2:2. At her father's house. Gayfidd Square, in 
the 16th year of her age, Chnstian, only oaugbter 
of Patrick Black, Esq. late principal surveyor of 
his Majesty's Customs, Qreenoek. 

— At his house. No. 4, Northumberland Plac^ 
Mr Adam Russd, builder. 

— At Pcttycur, near Kinghom, Mr Dunean Ca* 
meron, vintner there. 

23. At Montrose, Mrs Innes, wife of Captain In- 
nes, Forfar Militia. 

— At Mailingslane, Mr Thomas SonunerviUe* 
farmer there. 

— At Paisley, Mrs Margiuret Morrison^ wife of 
the Rev. Dr Ferrier. 

•~ At her house, Hanover Street, Mrs Janet 
Calderwood, widow of Mr David Gordon, mexdi- 
ant. 

26. At Edinburgh, Mrs Dawson, rdict of Mr 
Thomas Dawson, of the Excise Office, Edinbuish. 

25. At Brighton Place, Portobeilo, Catharme 
Gunning, mfant daughter of D. Hunter, Esq. 

— At her house, 15, Chapd Street, Miss E. 
Thomson, aged 76 years. 

— At his nouse, 65, Potterrow, Mr David Forw 
rest, autioneer, Edinburgh. 

— At Pilrig Place, Ldth Walk, David, young. 
est son of the late Alexander Fairley, Esq. dirtu- 
ler, Dunfermlme. 

•.- At Paris, General Foy, (Maximilian Sebas- 
tian,) of an aneurism of the heart. 

— Suddenly, at his house, George Square, Ar- 
chibald Campbell, Esri. 

29. At Edinburgh, Malcolm Alexander, son cf 
Malcolm Stewart, lilsq. of Athole Bank, Perth- 
shire. 



Pnnfcd by James BaUanti/ne and Cmnpanv. 



BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, 



No. CIX. FEBRUARY, 1826. Voi. XIX. 

Birds, . . ... . 105 

MooRE*i Life OF Sheridan, . . . . . . . . 113 

The Quarterly Review op Dr Macmichael on Contagion and 

THE Plague, 130 

To MY Birdie, . . . . . • ,. . . . , 131 

NuGiE LiTERARIiE. No. I. 

Grattan — Duke of Wellington — Most Offensive of Monuments— Ambergris— 

The Plague— The Devil's Walk, ...... 133 

The Country Curate. Chap. IV. The Shipweec^, . . 1-37 

. Chap. V. The Fatalist, . . . 143 

On the Dramatic Powers of the Author of Waverley, , 152 
The Man-of-War's-Man. Chaps. XVIII. and XIX. . 161-165 

HORiE iTALICiE. No. II. ArISTGDEMO j BY ViNCENZO MONTt, 176 

Axel. A Translation from a Swedish Poem, by Esaias Tegner, 184 

Lectures ON Peandiolooy. Lecture I. ..... 195 

On Cant in Dramatic Criticism. Miss Kelly's Lady Teazle, 197 

The French Globe AND Blackwood's Magazine, . . . 205 

NocTES Ambrosian-*, No. XXIV. ^ , 211 

MONTHLY REGISTER. 

Monthly List of New Publications, ..... ;228 

Appointments, Promotions, &c ♦ . . • 934- 

Births, Marriages, and Deaths, 239 



EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, NO. 17, PHINCE's STEEET, EDINBURGH ; 

AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON 9 

To 10110111 Communications {postpaid) may he adareiKcU 

*o{.d also by all the booksellers of the united kingdom.. 

printed by JAMES BALLANTVNE & CO. EDINBURGH. 



SPSEDILY WILL BK PUBLISHED, 

BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH, 

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« 

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In One Volume 8vo, 

PROSPECTUS 

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OP 

A COURSE OF MORAL INQUIRY. 

By JOHN WILSON, 

rROriSSOR of moral PHILOSQFHY IK the UI^IVKRBITY of EOINBUROHf 

II. 

THE LAST OF THE LAIRDS, 

OR, 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS 

OF 

MALACHI MAILINGS, ESQUIRE, 

OF AULDBIGGINGS. 

«« WliRt*8 the Laird d<^g, Jock ?** 

** Doing ! what should he be doing ! but sitting on his ain louping-on stana 
and glowring frae him ?**— iSt^ Sayings fsf Jodc the LamVt Man. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 
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In One Volume post 8vo, 

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THE OMEN. 



Can such things bt» 



And overcome us like a summer cloud« 
Without our special wonder ! 

Shaeespeabe. 



■ ■ I -^ , . 

V 



' * <f i . • ' - ' f . r. 



- i 



BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBUR((}H MAGAZINE, 



No. CIX. 



FEBBUARY, 1826. 



Vol. XIX. 



BIBD8. 



With the sound of our Pbefacb 
yet ringing in their ears^ our many 
myriads of readers will open this Num- 
ber in hope and fear of some tremen- 
dous eitpiosion. The very least we 
can do^ after last month's volcano^ will 
be to blow up both Houses of Parli»* 
ment! — No such thing. The great 
beauty of our character— that wnic^ 
so rivets the affection of ourfriends, 
and so perplexes the hatred of our ene« 
mies, — ^is its apparent inconsistency. 
We are never tne same Magazine for 
two months togeth^. The moon her- 
Bd£, high as she stands for changeful- 
ness^ is, in comparison with us> a most 
steady periodicaL During the harvest, 
especially^ she seems always a well- 
pleased planet, as if a doud had never 
crossed her face. Nay, astronomers 
and shepherds pretend to understand 
much of her behaviour all the year 
round, and ta predict when the £ur 
editress is about to favour the public 
with a brilliajit Number. But where 
is the astronomer or shepherd, (even 
he the (Hialdean,) who snail venture 
to prophesy whether in a troubled or 
serene heaven will rise the efihlgenee 
of our next month's bonis ? Soence 
herself is baffled, and imagination oon- 
fesses herself i^t the walL Thct^natbns 
see *Uie day of our risii^ advertised, 
and wonder if, with fear of change^ 
we are to be perplexing mooarehs, or 
meiely diffasing oar gentle radknce 
over tbe paths itflitenitiive, asd bright* 
ening the privacy of domestic life. 

Vol. XIX. 



It is surely needless, at this time of 
day, to point out the surpassing eKod*i 
knee of such a character as this in any 
public and periodical personage, whe- 
ther in heaven or on earth. We dieer» 
fully acknowledge, that many of the 
other Magazines are tiresome to a d^ 
gree, of which those who have nevw 
read them can form not even the moat 
inadequate conception; and yet- it 
would be cruel to call them bad Ma- 
gazines. We believe them to be good 
Magazines. But what is a cold abi^ract 
belief without aooompanying emotion} 
We do not feel them to be ^od li^bipa* 
zines ;-— of whidi there cannot be a 
stronger proof than this, that wh^i 
we chance to fall asleep durii^ the pe- 
rusal of even one of their most interest* 
ing articles, we never dream about it— 
never, so help us heavmi !— but in our 
slumbers as utterly finget them m if 
audi productions never £id beoi borne. 
Now, no sooner do we sink into repose 
over an artide in Blackwood, (we 
adopt the common phraseologjr,) than 
that Periodical pinrsues us into the 
land of Nod, and haunts ua in the 
shape of a draun. We hear an qh- 
certain sound like the rustlinff of 
win^; and then a countemmo^ fluo* 
toatmg from sternness to suavitv, amilea 
or frowns upon U8*4s it that or George 
or Cfapstoptier— of Korth or Budi** 
nan— «f Socratea or Solomon f — Into 
whatever iniMiBary aeene fimcy mtLj 
have wifled the contributor, he seems 

to aseend steps like the very steps 

n 



106 

of No. 17, Prince's Street ; he sees 
the same long vista of yestibule, front 
shop, intermediate saloon, f where sits 
that same one eternal reaaer of the 
Courier,) and remoter den, till he sinks 
down in " Rabelais' easy-chair" in the 
Sanctum Sanctorum. 

You may have observed something 
"like this, not merely in literature, but 
in life. Think of any remarkable man, 
whom you may chance to know — any 
man of genius. Why, one day is he 
not grim and gruff as a bear, and if 
he condescends to growl, did you ever 
■ see such tusks ? Another day, he is 
more like a tiger basking in the sun, 
with eyes of playful ferocity,and claws, 
three inches long, sheathing and un- 
sheathing themselves in a sort of eager 
but careless instinct within the velvet 
of his stot-felling paws. Now he is all 
the world like a very absolute lion— 
marvellously imitating the part of the 
king of beasts ! — Anon, he is like the 
unweaned lamb, sporting on the sun<- 
ny knoU-^entle as the cooing dove— 
" wedk as is the breaking wave,"-— 
voiced like Zephyr, or the Lady-Echo. 

We insist on knowing whether, 
among all your numerous acquaint- 
ances, there be a single one whom you 
love so dearly as this bear, tiger, lion, 
lamb, dove, zephyr, and echo? To- 
day you have sworn to speak to him no 
more, — ^fbr he has just cut you, as you 
think, on the street, or eyed you as- 
kance with leer malign, — or over- 
whelmed you with such a flood of 
idea'd words, that you, in your slow 
prosing way, have been unable to slip 
m one of your long-treasared truisms, 
—or with one kick he has smashed, 
like so much crockery, an argument 
that you had been constructing, as you 
supposed, with frame-work of iron, 
instead of wood, — or, with the touch 
of his little finger, he has let down the 
card-built edifice of one of your rejected 
articles to Blackwood. To-morrow, 
he proposes an arm-in-arm walk round 
the Calton Hill, — inquires kindly after 
your wife, your sore throat, of your 
rheumatism, — asks your opinion of a 
book or a man, — expresses nis concern 
and surprise that you do not confirm 
the opinion held of you by all your 
fiiends, by giving to the public some 
work worthy of your talents, genius, 
and erudition, — ^wonders you did not 
go to the bar, — requests you to repeat 
(Jiat most exquisite story,— complains 
of a pain in his side at your last pun,«-> 



Birds. Cf ^. 

hints that Sbaidan was no wilir-^iid, 
on parting, proposes a sapper at Am* 

brose's. 

It is our fixed determinatioii this 
month to do the i^eeable. We shaU, 
therefore, not suffer any argumenta- 
tive contributor to opett his mouth. 
We shall not hurt a fly or a worm* 
Article shall vie with article in good 
humour and philanthropy. We uiall 
strive to make it impossible for the 
most sensitive subscriber or non-sub* 
scriber (the two great divisions of oid: 
race) to take off£nc£. Should we^ 
nevertheless, fail in such ayoidaace, 
and, by some unlucky monosyllable, 
(for occasionally one word of ours, so 
small perhaps as to be invisible to 
readers without spectacles, appears a 
very mountain of mischief,) raise up- 
the whole world against us, we shall 
make the amplest apolc^ that ever 
graced the pages of a periodical work. 
Yes ! Should the complainant be even 
the acknowledged Idiot of the^poet's 
comer of a Cockney newspaper, we 
shall, in our apology, cheerfully and 
unequivocally express our behef,— • 
nay, knowledge, — that he is the Au« 
thor of Waverley. 

We had once intended to entitle 
our leading article, '' Characters of 
our liiving Poets." We have writtm 
it, but are quite at a loss what to do 
with it ; for James Ballantyne informs' 
us that it would occupy twenty sheets, 
— that is, about three numbers of the 
Magazine. There are, we find, ex- 
actly 103 Livins Poets of magnitude 
in this free and nappy idand ; and an: 
average of three pages a-piece cannot- 
surely be thought unreasonable^— 
What, then, we ask once more, is to 
be done with the said article? We are 
determined not to fritter it down into* 
piecemeals. Will any publisher, Mnr*' 
ray, Longman, Hurst, Constable,' 
Blackwood^ or Oliver and Boyd, offer 
Five Hundred Pounds ? 

After dashing off the concluding 
words of our Essay, (" the most glo- 
rious age of British Poetry,") our- 
thoughts began to wander away, by 
some fine associations, into the woods 
of our childhood, " Bards of Scotland J - 
Birds of Scotland !" and at that very ~ 
moment, we heard the loud, dear, 
mellow, bold song of the Blackbiabu ' 
There he flits along upon a stroofi^ 
wing, with his yellow bill visible in 
distance, and disappears in the silent 
wood. Not long silent. It is a i^ng* • 



1896.]] 



Birds. 



197 



day in our imaginatf on>— his day-wall 
nest holds his mate at the foot of the 
Silver-fir, and he is now perched on 
its pinnacle. That thrilling hymn 
will go vibrating down the stem till it 
reaches her brooding breast. The 
whole vernal air is filled with the mur- 
mur and the glitter of insects, — ^but 
the blackbird's song is over all other 
symptoms of love and life, and seems 
to call upon the leaves to unfold into 
beauty. It is on iliat one Tree-top, 
conspicuous among many thousands 
on the fine breast of wood, where, 
here and there, the pine mingles not 
unmeetly with the prevailing oak,— 
that the forest-minstrel sits in his in- 
spiration. The rock above is one 
which we have often climbed. There 
lies the glorious Loch and all its islands 
—one dearer than the rest to eye and 
imagination, with its old Religious 
House,— year after year crumblini? 
away unheeded into more entire ruin I 
Far away, a sea of mountains, with all 
their billowing summits distinct in the 
sky, and now uncertain and changeful 
as the clouds ! Yonder Castle stands 
well on the peninsula among the trees 
which the herons inhabit. Those cop- 
pice woods on the other shore stealing 
up to the heathery rocks, and sprinkled 
birches, are the haunts of the roe ! 
That great glen, that stretches sul- 
lenly away into the distant dark- 
. iiess, has been for ages the birth 
and the death-place of the red deer. 
Hark, 'tis the cry of an eagle ! There 
he hangs poised in the sunlight, and 
now he flies off towards the sea. — 
But again the song of our Blackbird 
*^ rises like a steam of rich distilled 
perfumes," and our heart comes back 
to him upon the pinnacle of his own 
Home-tree. The source of song is yet 
in the happy creature's heart —but the 
song itself has subsided, like a moun- 
tain-torrent that has been rejoicing in 
a sudden shower among the hills ; the 
bird drops down among the balmy 
branches; and the other faint songs 
which that bold anthem had drownetl, 
are heard at a distance, and seem to 
encroach every moment on the si- 
lence. 

You say you greatly prefer the song 
of the Tii iwsM. Pray why set such de- 
lightful singers by the ears ? We dislike 
the habit that very many people have of 
trying everything by a scale. Nothing 
seems to them to be good — positively 
—only relatively. Now, it is true 



wiodom to be diarmed with what it 
charming, to live in it, for the thne 
being, and compare the emotion with' 
no former emotion whatever— un- 
less it be unconsciously in the work- 
ing of an imagination set a-going by 
delight. Who, in reading this Maga* , 
zine, for example, would compare or 
contrast it with any other Periodical 
under heaven ? You read it— and each ^ 
article is felt to be admirable or exe« 
crable— purely for its own sake. You 
love or you hate it, as the, not as a 
Magazine. You hug it to your heart, 
or you make it spin to the other end 
of the room, simply because it is 
Blackwood's Magazine, without, du- 
ring the intensity of jour emotion, 
remembering that Colburn's, or the 
Monthly, or the London, or the Eu« 
ropean, or the Ladies', or the GenUe« 
man's, exists. No doubt, as soon as 
the e^notiqn has somewhat subsided, 
you do begin to think of the other Pe« 
riodicals. On stooping to pick up the 
Number that has so aroused your 
wrath, you say, ** I will subscribe to 
the New Monthly," — yet no sooner ' 
have the words escaped your lips than 
you blush, like a flower unseen, at 
your own folly. Your own folly 
stares you in the face, and out of coun- 
tenance — You bless your stars that no- 
body was in the room at the time— 
You re-read the article, and perceive, 
in your amended temper, that it is full - 
of the most important truths, couched 
in the most elegant language. You 
dissolve into tears of remorse and pe- 
nitence, — and vow to remain a faith- 
ful subscriber on this side — at least— 
of the grave. 

Although, therefore, we cannot say 
that we prefer the Thrush to the Black- 
bird, yet we a^ee with you in think- 
ing it a most delightful bird. Where 
a Thrush is, we defy you to antici- 
pate his song in the morning. He is 
indeed an early riser. By the way. 
Chanticleer is far from being so. You 
hear him crowing away from shortly 
after midnight, and, in your simpli- 
city, may suppose him to be up, and 
strutting about the premises. Far 
from it ; — he is at that very moment 
perched in his polygamy, between two 
of his fattest wives. The sultan will 
perhaps not stir a foot for several hours 
to come,; while all the time the Thrush, 
having long ago rubbed his eyes, is on 
his topmost twig, broad awake, and 
charming the ear of dawn with hia 



108 

beauttfal vociferation. During mid* 
day he diaappearsy / and is mute ; but 
again^ at de¥ry even^ as at dewy mom, 
he pours his pipe like a prodigal, nor 
ceases sometimes, when ni^t has 
brought the moon and stars. Best belo- 
ved, and most beautiful of all Thrushes 
that ever broke from the blue- spotted 
shell ! — thou who, for five springs, 
hast *' hung thy procreant cradle" 
among the roses, and honeysuckles, 
and ivy, and clematis, that embower 
in bloom the lattice of my cottage- 
study — how farest thou now in the 
snow ! — Consider the whole place as 
your own, my dear bird; and re- 
member, that when the gardener's chil- 
dren sprinkle food for you and yours 
all along your favourite haunts, that it 
is done by our orders. And when all the 
earth is green again, and all the sky 
blue, you will welcome us to our ru- 
ral domicile, with light feet running 
before us among the winter leaves, 
and then skim away to your new nest 
in the old spot, then about to be some- 
what more cheerful in the undis- 
turbing din of the human life within 
the flowery walls. 

Why do the songs of the Blackbird 
and Thrush make us think of the song- 
less Starling ? It matters not. We do 
think of him, and see him too— a 
beautiful bird, and his abode is ma- 
jestic What an object of wonder and 
awe is an old Castle to a boyish ima- 
gination ! Its height how dreadful ! 
up to whose mouldering edges his fear 
carries him, and hangs him over the 
battlements ! What beauty in those 
unapproachable wall-flowers, that cast 
a brightness on the old brown stones 
of the edifice, and make the horror 
pleasing ! That sound so far below is 
the sound of a stream the eye cannot 
reach— of a waterfall echoing for ever 
among the black rocks and pools. The 
school-boy knows but little of the his- 
tory of the old Castle, — ^but that little 
is of war, and witchcraft, and impri- 
sonment, and bloodshed. The ghostly 
glimmer of antiquity appals him — he 
visits the ruin only with a companion, 
and at mid-day. There and then it 
was that we first saw a Starling. We 
heard something wild and wonderful 
in their harsh scream, as they sat 
upon the edge of the battlements, 
or flew out of the chinks and cran- 
nies. There were Martens too, so 
difierent in their looks from the pretty 
House-Swallows— Jack-daws clamour- 



Birds. ZfAi 

ing afresh at every dime we Wftved oox 
hats, or vainly slung a pebble towarde 
then: nests — ^and one grove of elms, to 
whose top, much lower than the castley 
came, ever and anon, some noiseleM 
Heron frx>m the muirs. 

Higher and higher than ever rose 
the tower of Belus, soars and sings the 
Labk, the lyrical poet of the sky.-— 
Listen, listen! and the more remote 
the bird, the louder is his hymn in 
heaven. He seems, in his loftiness, to 
have left the earth for'ever,and to have 
forgotten his lowly nest. The prim- 
roses and the daisies, and all the sweet 
hill-flowers, must be unremembered in 
the lofty region of light. But just as the 
Lark is lost — ^he and his song together 
— ^both are again seen and heard wa« 
vering down the sky, and io a little 
while he is walking contented along 
the furrows of the brairded com, or 
on the clover lea, that has not felt the 
plough- share for half a century* 

In our boyish davs, we never felt that 
the Spring had really come, till the dear- 
singing Lark went careering before 
our gladdened eyes away up to hea- 
ven. Then all the earth wore a vernal 
look, and the ringing sky said, ^' win* 
ter is over and gone. ' As we roamed, 
on a holiday, over the wide pastoral 
moors, to angle in the lochs and pools, 
unless the day were very cloudy, the 
song of some lark or other was still 
warbling aloft, and made a part of our 
happiness. The creature could not 
have been more joyful in the skies, 
than we were on the greensward. We, 
too, had our wings, and flew through 
our holiday. Thou soul of glee ! who 
still leddest our flight in all our, pas* 
times! — bold, bright, and beautiful 
child of Erin ! — ^for many and many 
a long, long year hast thou been min- 
gled with the dust ! Dead and gone, 
as if they had never been, all the cap* 
tivations of thy voice, eye, laugh, mo* 
tion, and hand, open as day to ^^ melt- 
ing charity !" — He, too, the grave and 
thoughtful English boy^ whose exqui* 
site scholarship we all so enthusiasti- 
cally admired, without one single par* 
tide of hopeless envy, — and who ac- 
companied us on all our wildest expe- 
ditions, rather from affection to his 
playmates than any love of their sports, 
— ^he who, timid and unadventiiroua 
as he seemed to be, yet rescued little 
Marian of the Brae from a drowning 
death, when so many grown-up joaen 
stooil aloof in seltii^ £ear, — gone, too. 



1 W«.;3 Birds. 

for ever art thou^ my belored Edward 
Harrington! and^ after a few brilliant 
years in the oriental clime^ 

— — *' on Hoogley's bonks aftr* 
Looks down on thy lone tomb the Evening Star. 

Methinks we hear the " songo' the 
Grey Lintib," perhaps the darling 
bird of Scotland. None other is more 



let 



panniored three dozen, tou ste al « 
wooden bridge— you fisn tnepoolabofs 
it with the deucate dexterity of'« 
Boaz> capture the monarch of tbefloody 
andon luting your eves from his starry 
side as he gasps his last on the silvery 
shore, you behold a cottage, at one 
gable end an ash, at the other a i yciH 
tenderly sung of in our old ballads. - more, and standing perhaps at the 
When me simple and fervent love-poets lonely door, a maiden far more beauti* 



of our pastoral times first applied to the 
maiden the words, '^ my bonnie burd- 
they must have been thinking of 



le 



the Grey Lintie— -its plumage ungaudy 
and sooerly pure — ^its shape elegant, 
yet unobtrusive— and its song various 
without any effort — ^now rich, gay, 
spri^tly, but never rude or riotous — 
now tender, almost mournful, but 
never gloomy or desponding. So, too, 
areaUits habits, endearing anddelight- 
ful. It is social, yet not averse to so- 
litude, singing often in groups, and as 
often by itself in the furze-brake, or 
on the briary knoll. You often find 
the lintie's nest in the most solitary 
places — ^in some small self-sown clump 
of trees by the brink of a wild hill- 
stream, or on the tangled edge of a fo- 
rest; and just as often you find it in the 
hedgerow of the cottage garden, or in 
a bower within, or even in an old 
gooseberry #bush that has grown into 
a sort of tree. 

One wild and beautiful place we 
well remember — ay, the very bush in 
which we first found a grey linnet's 
nest — for, in our native parish, from 
some cause or other, it was rather a 
rarish bird. That far-away day is as 
distinct as the present now. Imagine, 
friend, first, a little well surrounded 
with wild cresses on the moor, some- 
thing like a rivulet flows from it, or ra- 
ther you sec a deep tinge of verdure 
the line of which, you believe, must be 
produced by the oozing moisture — ^you 
follow it, by and by there is a descent 
palpable to your feet — then you find 
yourself between low broomy knolls, 
that, heightening every step, become 
ere long banks, and braes, and hills. 
You are surprised now to see a stream, 
and look round for its source — there 
seem now to beahundred small sources 
in fissures, and springs on every side 
— you hear the murmurs of its course 
over beds of sand and gravel — ^and 
hark, a waterfall ! A tree or two begins 
to shake its tresses on the horizon — a 
birch or a rowan. You get ready 
your angle — and by the time you have 



ful than any angel. 

This'.is the Age of Confessions ; and 
why, therefore, may we not mttke a 
confession of first love ? I had Bnish^ 
ed my sixteenth year,— I was almost 
as tall as I am now, — ^almost as tall I 
Yes, yes, — ^for my figure was then 
straight as an arrow, and almost like 
an arrow in its flight. I had given 
over bird-nesting, — ^but I had not 
ceased to visit the dell where first I 
found the grey lintie's brood. Tale* 
writers are told by critics to remem- 
ber that the young shepherdesses of 
Scotland are not beautiful as the fic« 
tions of a poet's dream. But she was 
beautiful beyond poetry. She was so 
then, when passion and imagination 
were young, — and her image, ner un- 
dying, unfading image, is so now, 
when passion and imagination are old, 
and when from eye and soul have 
disappeared much of the beauty and 
glory both of nature and life. I loved 
her from the first moment that our 
eyes met, — and I see their light at this 
moment, the same soft, bright, bum* 
ing light, that set body and soul on 
fire. She was but a poor shepherd's 
daughter ; but what was that to me, 
when I heard her voice singing one 
of her old plaintive ballads among 
the braes, — when I sat down beside 
her, — ^when the same plaid was drawn 
over our shoulders in the rain-storm, 
—when I asked her for a kiss, and 
was not refiised,— for what had she 
to fear in her beauty, and her inno* 
cence, and her filial piety, — and was 
not I a mere boy, in tne bliss of pas- 
sion, ignorant of deceit or dishonour, 
and with a heart open to the eyes of 
all as to the gates of heaven ? What 
music was in that stream ! Could '* Sa- 
bean odours from the spicy shores of 
Araby the Blest" so penetrate my soul 
with joy, as the balmy breath of the 
broom on which we sat, forgetful of 
all other human life! Father, mo« 
ther, brothers, sisters, uncles, and 
aiints, and cousins, and all the tribe of 
friends that would throw me off, — ^if 

1« 



110 



I, 8houkl be so base and mad as to 
marry a low-born, low-bred, ignorant, 
UBedncated, crauy, ay, crafty and de- 
8iguin<; be^ar, — were all forgotten in 
my delirium, — ^if indeed it were deli- 
rium, — and not an everlastingly-sa^ 
cred devotion of the soul to nature and 
to truth. For in what was I deluded ? 
A voice, — a faint and dewy yoice, — 
^leadened by the earth that fills up 
her grave, and by the turf that, at this 
very hour, is expanding its primroses 
to the dew of heaven, — ^answers, " In 
nothing !" 

'^ Ha ! ha ! ha!" exclaims some read- 
er in derision, " here's an attempt at 
the pathetic, a miserable attempt in- 
deed, for who cares about the death of a 
mean hut-girl? we are sick of low life." 
Why, as to that matter, who cares for 
the ueath of any one mortal being ? 
Who weeps for the death of the late 
Emperor of all the Russias? Who 
wept over Napoleon the Great ? When 
Chatham or Burke, Pitt or Fox died 
— ^on't pretend to tell lies about a 
nation's tears. And if yourself, who, 
perhaps, are not in low life, were to 
die in half an hour, (don't be alarm- 
ed,) all who knew you, except two or 
three of your bosom friends, who, 
partly from being somewhat dull, and 
partly from wishing to be decent, 
might blubber — ^would walk along 
Prince's Street at the fashionable hour 
of three, the very day after your fu- 
neral. Nor would it ever enter their 
heads to abstain from a comfortable 
dinner at the British Hotel, ordered, 
perhaps, a month ago, at which time 
you were in rude health, merely be- 
cause you had foolishly allowed a cold 
to fasten upon your lungs, and carry 
you off in the prime and promise of 
your professional life. In spite of all 
your critical slang, therefore, Mr Edi- 
tor or Master Contributor to some li- 
t^ary journal, she, though ,a poor 
Scottish Herd, was most beautiful; 
ajnd when, but a week after taking 
farewell of her, I went, according to 
our tryst, to fold her in my arms, and 
was told by her poor father that she 
was^dead, — ay, dead and buried — that 
she had no existence — that neither the 
daylight nor I should ever more be 
gladdened by her presence — that she 
was in a coffin, six feet in earth — that 
the worms were working their way to- 
wards the body, to crawl into her bo- 
som — that she was fast becoming one 
mass of corruption — when I awoke 



Birds* \^JNbi 

from the dead-fit of horrid dretmt fn 
which I had lain on the fioor of my 
Agnes's own cottage,, and cursed tlie. 
sight of the heaven and the earth, 
and shuddered at the thought of the 
dread and dismal God — when I — - 

We wish that we had lying on the 
table before us Grahames pleasant 
Poem, " The Birds of Soothind ;" but 
we lent our copy some years ago to a 
friend — and a friend never returns a 
borrowed book. Butherei8ayery«gre&* 
able substitute — ^^ A Treatise on Bri* 
tish Song-Birds," published by John 
Anderson, jnn., Edmburgh, and Simp- 
kin and Marshall, London. The small 
musicians are extremely well engraved 
by Mr Scott, of Edinburgh, from very 
correct and beautiful drawings, done 
by an English artist, and there is a 
well- written introduction, of 40 pagesy 
from the pen of Mr Patrick Syme. 
We presume that the rest of the letter* 
press is by the same gentleman — and it 
does him very great credit. The volume 
includes observations on their natural 
habits, and manner of incubation; . 
with remarks on the treatment of the 
young, and management of the old 
birds, in a domestic state. 

^' The delightful music of song-birdf 
is, perhaps, the chief cause why these 
charming little creatures are, in all 
countries, so highly prized. Music is 
an universal language ; — ^it is under- 
stood and cherisned in every country 
— the savage, the barbarian, and the 
civilized individual, are all passion- 
ately fond of music, particularly of 
melody. But, delightful as music is, 
perhaps there is another reason that 
may have led man to deprive the 
warblers of the woods and fields of li- 
berty, particularly in civilised states, 
where the intellect is more refined, 
and, consequently, the feeUngs more 
adapted to receive tender impressions ; 
— we mean the associations of ideas. 
Their sweet melody brings him more 
particularly in contact witn groves and 
meadows— with romantic banks, or 
beautiful sequestered glades — the che- 
rished scenes, perhaps, x)f his e^rly 
youth. But, independent of this, the 
warble of a sweet song-bird is, in itself, 
very deli(>htful ; — and, to men of se- 
dentary habits, confined to cities by 
professional duties, and to their desks 
most part of the day, we do not know 
a more innocent or more agreeable re- 
creation than the rearing and training 
of these little feathered musicians." 



19«ff.I| ' Birds. 

Now, we hear many 6f otir readers 
crying out against tne barbarity of 
.confining the free denizens of the air 
in wire or wicker cages. Grentle read- 
ers, do, we pray, keep your compas* 
sion for other objects. Or, if you are 
disposed to be argumentative with us, 
let us just walk down stairs to the lar- 
der, and tell the public truly what we 
there behold — tnree brace of par- 
tridges, two ditto of moor-fowl, a 
cock-pheasant, poor fellow, — a man 
and his wife of the aquatic, or duck 
kind, and a wood-cock, vainly pre- 
senting his long Christmas biU— 

'* Some sleeping klird— 
All murder'd.**— 

Why, you are indeed a most logical 
reasoner, and a most considerate Chris- 
tian, when you launch out into an in- 
vective against the cruelty exhibited 
in our cages. Let us leave this den of 
murder, and have a glass of our wife's 
home-made frontiniac in her own 
boudoir. Come, come, sir, — ^look on 
this newly-married couple of canaries. 
— The architecture of their nest is cer- 
tainly not of the florid order, but my 
Lady Yellowlees sits on it a well-sa- 
tisfied bride. Come back in a day or 
two, ^nd you will see her nursing 
triplets. Meanwhile, hear the ear- 
piercing fife of the bridegroom!— 
Where will you find a set of happier 
people, unless, perhaps, it be in our 
parlour, or our library, or our nursery ? 
For, to tell you the truth, there is a 
cage or two in almost every room of the 
house. Where is the cruelty-— here, or 
in your blood-stained larder ? But you 
must eat, you reply. We answer — not 
necessarily birds. The question is about 
birds — cruelty to birds ; and were that 
sagacious old wild-goose, whom one 
single moment of heedlessness brought 
last Wednesday to your hospitable 
board, at this moment alive, to bear 
a part in our conversation, can you 
dream that, with all your Jefireyan 
ingenuity and eloquence, you could 
persuade him — the now defunct and 
dejected — that you were under the 
painful necessity of eating him with 
stuffing and apple-sauce ? 

The intelligent author of the Trea- 
tise on British Birds does not con- 
descend to justify the right we claim 
to encage them ; but he shows his ge- 
nuine humanity in instructing us how 
to render happy and healthful their 
imprisonment. He says very prettily. 



111 

" What are town- gardens and ahrub* 
beries in squares, but an attempt ^ 
ruralize the city ? So^trong is the de« 
sire in man to participate in country 
pleasures, that he tries to bring som^ 
of them even to his room. Plants and 
birds are sought after with avidity, and 
cherished with delight. With nowerg 
he endeavours to make his apartments 
resemble a garden ; and thinks of 
groves and fields, as he listens to th^ 
wild sweet melody of his little captives. 
Those who keep and take an interest 
in song-birds, are ofteu at a loss how 
to treat their little warblers during 
illness, or to prepare the proper food 
best suited to their various constitu- 
tions ; but that knowledge is absolute* 
ly necessary to preserve these little 
creatures in health : for want of it, 
young amateurs and bird-fanciers have 
often seen, with regret, many of their 
favourite birds perish." 

Now, here we confess is a good phy-* 
sician. In Edinburgh we understand 
there are about 500 medical practition* 
ers on the human race, — and we have 
dog-doctors, and horse-doctors, who 
come out in numbers — ^but we have 
had no bird-doctors. Yet often, too 
often, when the whole house rings 
from garret to cellar with the cries of 
children teething, or in the hooping- 
cough, the little linnet sits silent on 
his perch, a moping bunch of feathers^ 
and then falls down dead, when his 
lilting life might have been saved by 
the simplest medicinal food skilfully 
administered. Surely if we have phy- 
sicians to attend our tread-mUls, and 
regulate the diet and day's work of 
merciless ruffians, we should not su£* 
fer our innocent and useful prisonenj 
thus to die unattended. Why do not 
the Ladies of Edinburgh form them-^ 
selves into a Society for this purpose ? 

Not one of all the philosophers in 
the world has been able to tell us wha^ 
is happiness. Sterne's Starling is weak- 
ly supposed to have been miserable* 
Probably he was one of the most con«* 
tented birds in the universe. Doea 
confinement, — the closest, most un-i 
companioned confinement — ^make onq 
of ourselves unhappy ? Is the sho&r 
maker, sitting witn his head on his 
knees in a hole in the wall from mom^ 
ing to night, in any respect to be pi- 
tied ? Is the solitary orphan, that sits 
all day sewing in a garret, while the 
old woman for whom she works is out 
washing-, an object of compassion ? or 



Birds. DMw 

idea of what he was saying : and had 
he been up to the meaning ot his woidiy 
would have been shocked at his un- 
grateful folly. Look at Canaries^ anil 
Chaffinches^ and Bullfinches, and ''die 
rest/' "how they amuse diemselyes ftr 
a while flitting about the room, aid 
then findhig how dull a thing it ia to 
be citizens of the world, bounce vp to 
their cages, and shut die door nom 
the inside, glad to be once more at 
home. Begin to whistle 6r sinc^ yomw 
self, and forthwith you have a duet, (xr 
a trio. We can imagine no more per- 
fectly tranquil and dieerful life tluui 
that of a Goldfinch in a cage, in Spring, 
with his wife and his children. ^ 
his social affections are cultivated to 
the utmost. He possesses many ac- 
complishments unknown to his bre- 
thren among the trees ; — ^he has nerer 
known what it is to want a meal in times 
of the greatest scarcity; and he ad- 
mires the beautiful irost-work on the 



112 

the widow of fourscore^ hurkliiig over 
the embers, witli a stump of a pipe in 
her toothless mouth ? Is it so sad a 
thing indeed to be alone ? or to have 
one's mofions circumscribed within 
the narrowest imaginable limits? — 
Nonsense all. Nine-tenths of man- 
kind, in manufacturing and commer- 
cial countries, are cribbed and confi- 
ned into little room, — generally, in- 
deed, together, but often solitary. 

Then, gentle reader, were you ever in 
a Highland shieling? It is built of turf, 
and is literally alive ; for the beautiful 
heather is blooming, and wild-flowers 
too— and walls and roof are one sound 
of bees. The industrious little crea- 
tures must have come several long 
miles for their balmy spoil. There is 
but one human creature in that shiel- 
ing, but he is not at all solitary. He no 
more wearies of that lonesome place, • 
than do the sun-beams or the shadows. 
To himself alone, he chants his old 
Gaelic songs, or frames wild ditties of windows when thousands of his fea- 



his own to the raven or red deer. 
Months thus pass on ; and he descends 
agstin to the lower country. Perhaps he 
goes to the wars — ^fights — ^bleeds — and 
returns to Badenoch or Lochaber ; and 
once more, blending in his imagination 
the battles of his own regiment, in 
Egypt, or Spain, or at Waterloo, with 
the deeds done of yore by Ossian sung, 
lies contented by the door of the same 
shieling, restored and beautified, in 
which he had dreamt away the sum- 
mers of his youth. 

To return to birds in cages ; — they 
are, when well, uniformly as happy as 
the day is long. What else could oblige 
them, whether they will or no, to burst 
out into song, — to hop about so plea- 
sed and pert, — to play such fantastic 
tricks like so many whirligigs, — to 
deep so soundly, and to awake into a 
small, shrill, compressed twitter of joy 
at the dawn of light ? So utterly mis- 
taken was Sterne, and all the other sen- 
timentalists, that his Starling, who he 
absurdly opined was wishing to get 
out, would not have stirred a peg had 
the door of his cage been fiung wide 
open, but would have pecked like a 
very game-cock at the hand inserted 
to give him his liberty. Depend upon 
it, that Starling had not the slightest 



thered friends are bmried in the snow, 
or what is almost as bad, baked up 
into pies, and devoured by a large sup- 
per-party of both sexes, who fbrtiry 
their fiummery and flirtation by sucn 
viands, and, remorseless, swallow do- 
zens upon dozens of the warbkra of 
the woods. 

Ay, ay, Mr Groldy ! you are won- 
dering what I am now doing, and 
speculating upon me with ar(£ eyea 
and elevated crest, as if you -would 
know the subject of my lucubrations. 
What the wisen or better wouldst llum 
be of human knowledge ? Sometimes 
that little heart of thine goes pit-a-pat, 
when a great, ugly, staring contributor 
thrusts his inquisitive nose within ^e 
wires — or when a strange cat ^des 
round and round the room, fasdnatinff 
thee with the glare of his fierce fizea 
eyes ; — ^but what is all that to the woes 
of an Editor ? — ^Yes, sweet simpleton ! 
do you not know that I am the Editor 
of Blackwood's Magazine— Christo- 
pher North ! Yes, indeed, we are that 
very man, — that self-same mudi-ca- 
lumniated man-monster and Ogre.-^ 
There, there !— perch on my shoulder, 
and let us laugh together at the whole 
world. 



1886.;] 



Moore* t Life of Sheridan* 



113 



moore's life of shebidan.* 



\ 



In spite of all the sins, both of omis- 
sion and commission^ with which To- 
ry^ Whig> and Radical Journals havc^ 
perhaps justly, charged them^ these 
are two volumes of extraordinary in* 
terest — ^nor are they discreditable to 
Mr Moore. The subject was, indeed, 
a most difficult and dangerous one, 
nor was it possible for a man of Mr 
Moore's peculiar opinions, tempera- 
ment, and genius, to treat it without 
involving himself in a sea of troubles. 
No doubt, were we to submit his 
work to a strict and unsparing scruti- 
ny, we could get up a long, laboured 
article, full of refutations and imputa- 
tionsand confutations, that would prove 
him to be one of the greatest criminals 
on our annual Calendar. 3ut as we 
have declared this to be a month of 
Mercy — ^we shall treat Mr Moore with 
a gentleness that may well surprise 
and delight him — a gentleness, in-< 
deed, which even in our most trucu- 
lent Numbers we generally display to- 
wards every writer who has at any 
time delighted us — and need we say, 
that that has been done by the poet of 
Lalla Rookh ? 

Let us take first the Politics — and 
get done with them in not many words 
— then a paragraph or two about She- 
ridan, as Richard Brinsley in domes- 
tic and social life — and finally, a few 
remarks on his Dramatic Genius. Each 
of these three subjects would furnish 
matter for an article — ^but we hate 
prosing — so hope to settle them all in 
one sober and sensible sheet. 

Never was any secret betrayed with 
more naivete, than the account which 
Mr Moore gives of the principles of 
the Whigs, in advocating and fostering 
the cause of reform. We cannot ima- 
gine the amazed looks with which Lord 
Grey, and the remnants and refuse of 
the Fox party, must have read the 
passage alluded to, without bursting 
into immoderate and remorseless 
laughter. Never was such a charge 
made by any of all the adversaries of 
the Foxites, as that little passage con- 
tains, where our author, speaking of 
the institution of the society of " The 
Friends of the People," explains the 
real views and motives with which 
Fox, Grey, Sheridan, &c. connected 



themselves with that seditious confe- 
deracy. But the exposure of die hypo- 
crisy is too interesting to be merely 
adverted to; we must, in justice to Mr 
Moore's simplicity and to Whig ho^ 
nesty, quote the passage. 

'* In the Spring of this year was esta- 
blished the Society of ' The Friends of 
the People,* for the express purpose of 
obtaining a Parliamentary Reform. To 
this Association, which, less for its pro- 
fessed object than for the republican ten- 
dencies of some of its members^ was par- 
ticularly obnoxious to the loyalists of the 
day, Mr Sheridan, Mr 'Grey, and many 
others of the leading persons of the Whig 
party, belonged. Their Address to the 
People of England, which was put forth 
in the month of April, contained an Me 
and temperate exposition of the grounds 
upon which they sought for Reform ; and 
tlie names of Sheridan, Mackintosh, 
Whitbread, &c., appear on the list of the 
Committee by which this paper was drawn 
up. 

** It is a proof of the little zeal which 
Mr Fox felt at this period on the subject 
of Reform, that he withheld the sanction 
of his name from a Society, to which so 
many of his most intimate political friends 
belonged. Some notice was taken in the 
House of this symptom of backwardness 
in the cause ; and Sheridan, in replying 
to the insinuation, said, that ' they want- 
ed not the signature of his Right . Ho- 
nourable Friend to assure them of bis 
concurrence. They had his bond in tbe 
steadiness of his political principles and 
the integrity of Ms heart* Mr Fox him- 
self, however, gave a more definite expla- 
nation of the circumstance. ' He nbight 
be asked,* he said, ' why his name was not 
on the list of the Society for Reform ? 
His reason was, that though he saw great 
and enormous grievances, he did not see 
the remedy.* It is to be doubted, indeed, 
whether Mr Fox ever fully admitted the 
principle upon which the demand for a 
Reform is founded. When he afterwards 
espoused the question so warmly, it seems 
to have been merely as one of those wea- 
pons caught up in the heat of a warfare, 
in which Liberty itself appeared to him 
too imminently endangered, to admit of 
the consideration of any abstract princi- 
ple, except that summary one of the right 
of resistance to power abused. From 
what has been already said, too, of the 
language held by Sheridan on this subject. 



' * Memoirs of the Life of the Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheridan. By 
Thomas Moore. 2 vols. 8vo. Second edition. Longman and Co. London, 1825. 
Vol. XIX. P 



Moore's Lift of Sheridan. 



I. 

!■ 

|- 
I. 



'I . 



!i- 



'I 

bi 
i 



114 

it may be concluded that, though fur more 
ready than his friend to inscribe Reform 
upon the banner of the paity, he had even 
still less made up his mind as to the prac- 
ticability or expediency of the measure. 
Looking upon it as a question, the agita- 
tion of which was useful to Liberty, and 
at the same time counting upon the im- 
probability ef its objects being accomplish- 
ed, he adopted at once, as we have seen, 
the most speculative of all the plans that 
had been proposed, and flattered himself 
that he thus secured the benefit of the ge- 
neral principle, without risking the incon- 
lenience of any of the practical details." 
But this inrincerity of the Whigs in 
the cause of reform^ about which they 
raised sudi clamours to molest the 
possessors of place and patronage^ is 
still more clearly described in an ear- 
lier part of the work, and that passage 
1^^ in justice to all parties, should 
be extracted. It is where our author 
speaks of Sheridan's dtbut as a politi- 
cian. 

<' In the society of such men the des- 
tiny of Mr Sheridan could not be long 
in fixmg. On the one side, his own keen 
thirst for distinction, and, on the other, 
a quick and sanguine appreciation of the 
service that such talents might render in 
the warfare of party, could not fiail to 
hasten the result that both desired. 

« His first appearance before the pub- 
lic as a political character was in con- 
junction with Mr Fox, at the beginning 
of the year 1780, when the famous Re- 
solutions on the State of the Represen- 
tation, signed by Mr Fox as chairman of 
the Westminster Committee, together 
with a Report on the same subject from 
the Sub-committee, signed by Sheridan, 
were laid before the public. Annual 
Parliaments and Universal Suffrage were 
the professed objects of this meeting; 
ajid the first of the Resolutions, sub- 
scribed by Mr Fox, stated that ' Annual 
i^rliaments are the undoubted right of 
the people of England.* 

** Notwithstanding this strong declara- 
tion, it may be doubted whether Sheridan 
was, any more than Mr Fox, a very sin- 
cere friend to the principle of Reform ; 
and the manner in which he masked his 
disinclination or indifference to it was 
strongly characteristic both of his hu- 
mour and his tact. Aware that the wild 
scheme of Cartwright and others, which 
these Resolutions recommended, was 
wholly impracticable, he always took re- 



CPeU 



fuge in it when pressed upon the sobject* 
and would laughingly advise his poUtioak 
friends to do the same ;— ' Whenefer 
any one,* he would say, ' proposes ta 
you a specific plan of Reform, always 
answer that you are for nothing short of 
Annual Parliaments and Universal Suf- 
frage—there you are safe.' He also had 
evident delight, when talking on this 
question, in referring to a jest of Burke, 
who said that there had arisen a new 
party of Reformers, still more orthodooc 
than the rest, who thought Annual Pv- 
liaments fieur from being sufficiently fre- 
quent, and who, founding themselves ob 
the latter words of the statute of Edward 
III., that < a Parliament shall be holden 
every year once, and more ^en ^ need 
hey were known by the denomination of 
the Oftener-^'need'bes, ' For my part,* 
he would add, in relating this, * I am an 
Oftener-if-need-be.* Even when moat 
serious on the subject (for, to the last» 
he professed himself a warm friend to 
Reform) his arguments had the air of 
being ironical and insidious. To Annual 
Parliaments and Universal Suffrage, he 
would say, the principles of representa- 
tion naturally and necessarily led,— -any 
less extensive proposition was a base 
compromise and a dereliction of right; 
and the first encroachment on the people 
was the act of Henry VL, which limited 
the power of election to forty-shilling 
freeholders within the county, whereas 
the real right was in the ' outrageous 
and excessive* number of people, by 
whom the 'preamble recites* that the 
choice had been made of late.— Sucb 
were the arguments by which he affected 
to support his cause, and it is not difili- 
cult to detect the eyes of the snake glis- 
tening from under them.*' 

Wlien the Whig-club dinners are 
remembered — the meetings in PAlaoe 
Yard — the motions in the House of 
Commons^ to say nothing of the hob- 
bernobbery of the Duke of Norfolk 
with Wishart the tobacconist— history 
loses ber gravity, and holds both her 
sides. The poOT Whigs wanted but 
this to render their degradation as 
complete as their influence- and pre- 
tensions have become despicable. But 
the worst part of the eflbct of the 
simplicity with which these exposures 
of the public dishonesty, oS so many 
time-honoured and flagrant patriots, 
is the distrust with which it must 
inspire the people against eyery pnb- 



« *« Elections of knights of shires have now of late been made by very great ou 
recessive number of people, dwelling within the same counticsi of the whidi most pwrt 
of 6maU substotace and or no value.*' 8 il. 6. c. ?• 



aiMl 



W««.II Moore' 8 Life of Sheridan. 1 1 5 

iic man who profbsses to be their fomily consideration or pditical ener- 
tViend, And yet, in. the face of this , gy, lias the misfortune to incur the 
** peaching" of his whole political as- acquaintance of £he great. Mr Moore 



sociates, Mr Moore impugns the in- 
t^ty of Mr Burke ! He does not, 
•certainly, attempt to underrate the 
wonderral mind and acquirements 
of that extraordinary man ; but he 
speaks of him as so enthralled by his 
temper and irascibility, as to nave 
been little better than a maniac — an 
inspired maniac he would perhaps be 
idDing to allow. But what are we 
to think, either of the candour or the 
discernment of our author, who, with 
the visible demonstration before him 
of all that Burke's forecasting wisdom 
had predicted — come to pass— acted 
and done — described and recorded in 
the chronicles of every civilized nation 
-—yet ventures to insinuate that the 
influence upon the prophet himsdf, 
of the stupendous apocaljrpse with 
which he roused and alarmed the 
world, was the effect of a sordid calcu- 
lation — the consent of his poverty to a 
crime ! And, forsooth, because it was 
the opinion of those pure and precious 
reformers — those '' Friends of the 
people," with whom he had acted, till 
they became such friends of the peo- 
ple as Mr Moore has in his simplicity 
described. In quitting them, it is 
alleged, that he sold himself to the 
ministry, when, in point of fact, ex- 
cept in the simple principle of hos- 
tility to France, it is matter of history 
and moral demonstration, that there 
was little communion of spirit, or com- 
mon scope of intelligence, between 
Burke and Pitt, or any of the pro- 
minent members of the administration 
as it stood prior to the accession of the 
seceding Whigs. But Moore attack- 
ing Burke, is the antelope attacking 
the elephant — the war elephant, cas- 
tled and gsurisoned with all his gor- 
geous trappings gloriously upon him, 
as he comes forth from the orient 
gates of imperial palaces, amidst the 
Nabobs and Rajahs of the Indus and 
the Ganges. 

Humiliating as the views of hu- 
man nature are, which the Memoirs 
of Sheridan lay open, in the conduct 
of his political associates — there are 
yet passages which must awaken feel- 
ings of intenser mortification than 
even those which draw so much sym- 
pathy towards him, in as much as 
they affect the secret sentiments of 
-every man of talent, who, without 



touches the subject with the delicacy 
peculiar to his poetical pen, and con- 
sidering how much he has himself 
experienced of that costly condescen- 
sion, there is perhaps not another ^- 
ragraph in his book so pr^nant with 
meaning, as the few sentences in which 
he speaks of Sheridan's enjoyment of 
the proud consciousness of having siic- 
mounted the disadvantages of birth and 
station, and placed hiinself on a level 
with the highest and noUest of the 
land. But mark what follows, and 
let those who are possessed but of ge- 
nius — remember the admonition it 
contains, whenever they may be ho* 
noured with the humbling situation 
of a place at the tables of the lordly* 
— '* This footing in the society of 
the great he could only have attained 
by Parliamentary eminence. As a 
MERE WRITER, with all his genius, 

HE NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN TBUS 

ADMITTED ttdeundem among them. 
Talents in literature or science, un- 
assisted BY THE advantages OF 

BIRTH, may lead to association with 
the great, but rarely to equality — ^it is 
a passport through the weU-guarded 
frontier, but no title to naturalization 
within. By him who has not been born 
among them, this can only be achieued 
by POLITICS." — Vol. II. p. 73. This 
is well said; but Mr Moore might 
have gone farther— for he must have 
often observed — shall we venture to 
say felt ? — that the author or the artist 
at the table of the great, is but as a 
dainty, served up for the entertain- 
ment of the other arrogant guests. 
There are not half-a-dozen tables in 
London of " the lovers of the arts," 
as Mick Kelly calls them, which a 
man of genius^ unknown in politics, 
who has a right respect for nimself, 
would desire often to revisit — so of- 
fensively does the spirit of the legisla- 
tive caste reign at them all. 

There is one part of this work which 
will be read with interest and with sur- 
prise — we refer to Sheridan's intimacy 
with his present Majesty— and we will 
venture to assert, that every word Mr 
Moore says regarding it will be worm- 
wood and gall to many a proud and 
pompous Whig. One thing it makes 
out very clearly, viz. that there ne- 
ver did exist between the Prince of 
Wales and Mr Fox that entire and 



116 



Moore » Life of Sheridan^ 



IWb: 



Aree political and party friendgbip^ 
which it hsR been so long the en- 
deavour of Whiggery to represent — 
first, as ah inducement^ prior to the 
establishment of the Regency^ to draw 
recruits to their standard — and^ 8e« 
eond^ as a pretext for the abuse^ with 
which they have clamoured against 
him for his personal independence 
subsequent to that era. It appears 
to be matter of historical fact^ that 
in the secret negotiations during the 
year 1789, when the Regency ques- 
tion first arose, Mr Fox was not even 
then the first person in the confidence 
of his Royal Highness ; and that what 
has been called his Royal Highness's 
desertion of his early friends, is just 
one of those factious cries which re- 
quire but a plausible show of outward 
circumstances to give them currency. 
That his Royal Highness, by daring 
to act according to the determination 
of his own judgment, did disappoint 
many expectants, and that their pa- 
trons ascribed the cause rather to his 
faithlessness than to their own over- 
estimated influence with him, admits 
of no doubt whatever ; but whatever 
may have been thesocial intimacy of the 
Prince — ^his youthful companionship 
— with Lord Grey and Mr Fox, it by 
no means appears very clear that he 
ever did regard them prospectively as 
his ministers. That he contemplated 
the probability of having them about 
himself in the great offices of the 
house/iold, is, we think, not to be dis- 
puted; but we suspect he had seen 
too much of the character of both the 
one and the other, ever to have ima- 
gined they were qualified for the of- 
fices of the state. For the one, by his 
dangerous facility of temper, however 
well, for the short time he was in 
power, he may have acted, as new 
brooms sweep clean, was unfitted to 
withstand the hydra importunities of 
a government like that of England ; 
and the other, by his impracticable 
fastidiousness, was still less adapted 
for those details and daily obtrusions 
in office, to which the minister of a 
free people must constantly submit. 
There does indeed appear to have 
been a prodigious deal of double-deal- 
ing about the whole Whig party ; and 
it is impossible to be grave, when re- 
marking the manner in which our 
biographer has exposed it. The ac- 
count he has given of the views and 
principles of the leaders on the ques- 



tion of Parliamentary Bidana, 
bad enough for them all; Imt the 
light he has let in up(m the itate of 
their connexion with the Prince of 
Wfdes^ is still worse. Who ooaldlutTe 
imagined that ever Shakspeare's know* 
ledge of man would haye received is 
any point such an illuitralion'aB the 
simple expression of— ^^ Master Shal- 
low, I owe you a thousand pounda f 
obtained in the looks and fieelings of 
the Whigs, when they found the 
Prince hm resolved to betake hhnadf 
to counsellors in morfe esteem with 
the kingdom ! 

But the most interesting part of all 
this party history, is the conatancr of 
the Prince's attachment to Sheridan. 
Of the talents, the practical knowledge 
of mankind, and of the tact of that 
singular being, his Ro^al Highneia 
seems to have been uniformly senii** 
hie ; and to have consulted and tmated 
him in what respected his own eha^ 
racter towards the public, much more 
confidentially than he did any other 
of those who arn^ated to themadyea 
the title of " the Prince's friends." 

Mr Moore says little satiafiMtory On 
the subject of the well-known cool- 
ness between Sheridan and Fox da«> 
ring the Talent administration — ^We 
would ask, does he abstain from doing 
so ? He is not ignorant of the cause, 
or we must question the wonted fa- 
culty of his eyes and ears. The thing, 
however, is of no particular conse- 
quence ; nor perhaps would it much 
redound to the honour of Mr Fox, 
were it known. It is enough that the 
world knows how inadequate the place 
of Treasurer of the Navy was to the 
station Sheridan occupied in the ejres 
of the country — a circumstance which 
might induce some to fancy that the 
alleged coolness was not, aa it has 
been insinuated, altogether a pulling 
up into dignity on the part of Fox, 
in consequence of Sheridan's circum- 
stances, but perhaps was rather a 
withdrawing from him and his new 
associates on the part of Sheridan, in 
consequence of being consigned to an 
office so unworthy of his talents. Be 
this, however, as it may, whatever the 
cause of coolness was between these 
two orators, it is evident that it did 
not extend its influence to the Prince 
of Wales ; for we find that, on the eve 
of the regency, Sheridan waa deepest 
in the councils and bosom of his Royal 
Highness— indeed so much so, that it 



1826.;] M<mr€*» Life 

had the effect of weventiiig the Lords 
Grey and Grenville^ firom fonning an 
administration. The manner in which 
they took the pet^ because the Prince 
presumed to improve thdr draft of 
the answer to the House of Commons, 
and to make it more congenial to his 
own sentiments, was eminently ab- 
surd ; but the tone in which they re- 
sented to his Royal Highness the con- 
sultation he had held with Sheridan on 
the subject, deserves, and will ever ob- 
tain, a stronger epithet than only that 
of foolish. 

But after all that confidence, how, 
it will be said by the Whigs, did the 
Prince in the end treat this beloved 
Sheridan ? We will state at once our 
own opinion, just as bis royal 

HIGHNESS AS A GENTLEMAN OUGHT 

TO HAVE DONE. Hc bestowed upon 
him a handsome sinecure for life ; and 
when apprised that he was reduced to 
extreme poverty by the consequences, - 
less of ma own imprudence than the 
backing he received fronkWhitbread, 
and other similar friends, in his em- 
barrassed theatrical property, his Royal 
Highness, in the most delicate way pos- 
irible, intimated that the means were 
ready to procure him every comfort. It 
was silly, nay worse — ^it was insulting 
and contemptible to reject the boon — 
and then to cry out, that it was sent too 
late, especially when the parties who 
advised that most injurious step, per- 
fectly well knew that the relief was 
offered in the very moment that the 
need was made known. 

We wonder, however, in all that 
has been whined about Sheridan's 
poverty at the last, how so little has 
been said of Mrs Sheridan's conduct. 
What became of her separate settle- 
ment at that time, to which She- 
ridan contributed fifteen thousand 
pounds ? Was it in pledge ? We be- 
lieve not. Surely it was not likely 
to occur to any person who knew her 
circumstances, to imagine that her 
husband would be allowed to perish, 
as it were, in want ; and where, too, 
were all those splendid friends whose 
eleemosynary liberality enabled Mr 
Fox to maintain the rank of his birth af- 
t( r he had squandered both patrimony 
and pensions ? Poor Sheridan had no 
patrimony. The lordlv income he ac- 
quired and spent with those friends 
was earned by his own talents. But, 
alas ! he was grown old, and fallen 
into infirmities, and could no longer 



of Sheridan. 117 

serve the purposes of ibme eM and 
haughty peerages, over whom i^ 
whose cause the glory of his maobood 
shed such unparallded lustre. To 
have paid the debts of Sheridan by sub- 
scription, was an undertaking wfaidi 
those who reflected for a moment on 
the subject never concdv^ eilhar 
practicable or probable ; but the whoie 
noble herd who deserted him in hk 
utmost need, weU knew that thejr 
them^lves were the causes of the per- 
secutions and the miseries of his last 
hours. His deaih*bed was beui b^ 
duns and bailiffs, in the hope of wrings 
ingfrom him a supplicafton to the iitf 
Solent charity of those who afterwards 
so audaciously amended his funeral. 
But though the payment o£ his debte 
was not within tne scope of any rea- 
sonable proposal, a composition to ob- 
tain the relief of. a disdiarge might 
have been accomplished ; no one^ how«- 
ever, interposed to mediate such an 
arrangement with the creditors. But 
that was not surprising, for a rational 
man of business was not to be found 
at any time among the Whigs. How 
then, when the question was how to 
assist a man who nad exalted them to 
such a pitch of consideration in the 
eyes of the world, were they likely to 
produce one, when the person to be 
assisted could serve them no more? 
And yet these same Whigs, witli all 
their paper trumpets — the daily, the 
montnly, and the quarterly press- 
have never ceased to proclaim how 
much he was shamefully forsaken by 
the King, although it appears, even b) 
Mr Moore's account, that of all the 
public friends of Sheridan his Majesty 
alone was true; and that, aware of 
his afflicting embarrassments, his Ma- 
jesty actually offered to procure him 
a seat in Parliament, to protect him 
from the importunity of his creditors. 
That it was not accepted, and for the 
reasons explained by his biographer, 
reflects honour on the high-mindedness 
of Sheridan ; but the offer does not 
detract, in any degree, from the cha- 
racter of the King. 

There are, no doubt, spirits among 
the Whigs who will represent his Ma- 
jesty's conduct in thus proposing the 
Parliamentary sanctuary for his old 
friend as a misdemeanour in the trusts 
of the Regency ; but the common sense 
of the worlds that sense which consi- 
ders not the theory, but mere prac- 
tice amidst existing circumstances^ 



118 



Moore s Life of Sheridan* 



CFd). 



will vindicate the motives of the King. 
We feel, however, that upon this topic 
we are saying too much, and that we 
are taking a great liberty in presuming 
to offer any remark wnich might he 
construed into a defence of his Ma- 
jesty, when the simple question is, 
whedier the Whigs or ms Migesty 
were in fault, as respected the latter 
days of Sheridan ; when, in point of 
£u^, the King to the last continued 
his friend ; and at the last the Whigs 
woiidd have allowed him to starve, 
-and to die neglected. It is, no doubt, 
true, a melancholy truth, that for 
«ome time before the final extinction, 
that once brilliant spirit, whose splen- 
dour had dazzled nations, suffered a 
dark and disastrouseclipse. Few things 
in authentic story afford a scene half 
80 touching as^ that of such a man as 
Sheridan sitting, in his old age, for- 
lorn of friends and of fortune, weep- 
ing at the fire- side of the honest and 
£uthful Kelly, as, vdth the true- 
heartedness of the ^' poor fool" in 
Lear, he sung to him ms own tender 
and pathetic ballad. 

<* No more shall the spring my lost plea- 
sure restore, 
UncheerM I still wander alone, 
And sunk in dejection, for ever deplore 
The sweets of the days that arc gone. 
While the sun as it rises, to others shines 
bright, 
I think how it formerly shone ; 
While others cull blossoms, I find but a 

blight, 
" And sigh for the days that are gone. 

I stray where the dew falls through 
moon-lighted groves. 
And list to the nightingale's song, 
<Ier plaints still remind me of long ba- 
nish'd joys, 
And the sweets of the days that are 
gone. 
Each dew-drop that steals from the dark 
eye of night. 
Is a tear for the bliss that is flown : 
Where others cull blossoms, 1 find but a 

Wight, 
And sigh for the days that are gone.** 

Of Sheridan's personal character as 
he left it at his death, it would be 
painful indeed to speak. But in his 
youth, and during some part of his 
manhood, it seems to {lave been in 
some respects estimable. It cannot, 
however, with truth be said, that he 
ever showed the possession of any true, 
warm, unselfish, and disinterested feel- 



ing, such as endear to na the elittae- 
ter of a man for ever, and disposes or 
rather forces us to sink his many vices 
even in his few virtues, trom the 
time he left school, he appears to 
have been a reckless lover of pleasure, 
and to have sought nothing bat his 
own enjoyment. His birth did not 
throw him into the most reputable 
circles ; and perhaps it is not going 
too far to say, that he never showed 
the soul of a perfect gentleman. Thore 
is much that is ofl^udve in all l^t 
zUxtj of his first love ; and it is not 
possible to find him afterwards, for 
<me single week, unassodated in one 
way or other, with fiddlers, and buf- 
foons, and players, and managers, and 
farce-writers, and melo-dramatic me- 
chanicians, jobbers of all sorts, men 
of the town, the press, and the pri- 
son. 

It would not be easy, — ^it would be 
impossible, to lay your finger on any 
one noble action of his whole private 
life. In the glow of triumph, when his 
genius was aroused, no doubt his heart 
warmed with many sympathies ; but 
they led to nothing steadfast and peiw 
manent. His domestic affections can- 
not be said to have been cold — ^but ceiv 
tainly they were far from being either 
pure or deep ; and many men, unfor- 
tunatelv as wild, dissipated, and un- 
principled as himself, have retained 
amidst their vices, far more tenderness, 
truth, and sincerity of afiection, in 
the most sacred relations of life. 
Bursts of feeling Sheridan sometimes 
showed — or rather bursts of passion ; 
for regret, remorse, shame, and per- 
haps pity, were in his heart rather tnui 
love. The very triumphs of his genius 
had nothing affecting or august. Va- 
nity and selfishness seem to be almost 
the necessary vices of every professed 
wit ; and the most dq>lonible thing of 
all is, that a professed wit must per- 
petually be dependent on the frivoloas 
and the foolish. For one man of real 
genius like himself, how many wretcb- 
ed creatures must Sheridan have 
sought to enliven with hu fancy ! He 
seems at last to have been driven, even 
in the prime of his talents^to study 
table-talk as a profession,— ^to have 
lain a-bed devising good diings that 
should keep a party awake all the next 
night — and constructing spring-guns 
and man-traps, to set in taverns, or 
even private parlours, that they might 
go off upon some Bond Street pappy, 
or Essex calf, to shake the sides of 



1886.3 



Moore's Life ofSheridali* 



ni 



Y^nrkshire boobies with inextinguish- 
able laughter. All this must> in the 
course of thirty or forty years^ have 
become disheartening and debasing,-— 
and even in Mr Moore's account of 
the matter, one cannot help pitying 
poor Sheridan, reduced at last to at- 
tempt to do that with infinite labour 
and pains, wluch can be done effectual- 
ly but by the unpremeditated power 
of genius. 

Yet it can admit of no doubt, that 
in his best da^s, Sheridan must have 
been an admirable wit at the festive 
board. He had little or no learning ; 
and was, therefore, wholly £ree from 
pedantry, the utter destruction of all 
convivial merriment. His knowledge 
of human life was just sufficient to 
render him not absolutely superficial, 
and, therefore, he never penetrated too 
deep for ordinary apprehension. He 
was intimately acquainted ¥rith all the 
varieties of wnat is called^ with a some- 
what ludicrous limitation of its lati- 
tude. Life— and, therefore, needed ne- 
ver to be at a loss for illustrations fa- 
miliar to all his listeners. His animal 
spirits seem to have been just suffi- 
ciently irregular to give him in reality 
those occasional moods of compara- 
tive depression that serve to bring out 
the brilliancy of happier hours, and 
which would-be wits often wofully 
strive to forge in their penury. All his 
reading, and all bis writing, lay where 
he had found perpetual opportunities 
of plagiarism. His taste was correct, 
and so was his judgment, at least in aU 
conversational displays, and his was 
the cheering, inspiring, elevating name 
(well-earned), of the wittiest of the 
witty, so that all rivals quailed before 
him, and he was still looked up to as 
the leading star. 

We cannot believe, to its fullest ex- 
tent, the account which Mr Moore 
gives us of Sheridan's painful prepa- 
ration for company. Whatever may 
have been his apparent slowness in 
boyhood, nobody can deny that he was 
in conversation one of the wittiest of 
men. Then, he had been a diner-out, 
and a supper- out, and a sleeper-out, 
for many and many a long year, so that 
all the'common-places of conversation 
were familiar to nis mind. He was in 
perpetual training ; and, can it be be- 
Ue ved, that such a man, so living, cram- 
med himself with all good things be- 
fore he set out to dine and to dazzle ? 
Latterly, he might have done so — ^no 



doubt he did — ^but his spirits were ex- 
hausted ; he knew, that even the iiis(d- 
ration of the goblet for him was gone— 
that the feeling had left the fancy to 
itself—- that the brain was barren be- 
cause the bosom was desolate— that 
the wine of life was on the lees— and, 
thus sick of the society he once de« 
lighted in, waxing old ^^ and misera- 
bly poor," not much respected now by 
any one, and despised by himself— no 
wonder that Yorick, if he still were 
ambitious to set the table in a roar, 
should be driven to the dismal der* 
nier ressori of the worn-out wit, when 
not one spark of his former fires conk^ 
be otherwise awakened in the dead 
ashes of his imagination. 

But although we think Sheridan was 
a brilliant wit, we never can believe- 
that he was a great orator. In nothing 
so much as in oratory, may the world 
be abused by a man gifted with fancy 
and powers of speech. Sheridan had 
an ear for sonorous declamation ; and 
his imagination supplied him with a 
multitude of figures of ^[)eech. He in- 
fused a certain fervour into his periods; 
and by gross exaggeration and false- 
hood, which the excited public feeling 
greedily swallowed, he no doubt work- 
ed upon the minds even of first-rate 
men to a degree that is scarcely credi- 
ble, if we believe them to have been 
perfectly sincere in their emotions and 
their eulogies. For our own part, we 
shall never believe that Burke thought 
Sheridan the greatest of all orators. ^ 
He expressed that belief in an odd 
fashion, when he said that Sheridan's 
speech was neither poetry nor prose, 
but something better than eitlier — the 
severest criticism that could have been 
made on all that fustian audrhodo- 
montade. What remains of it — ^in all 
ihe forms alike — ^is execrably bad ; nor 
is there any writer of any character 
who would not be ashamed to have 
written it ; nor any orator who would 
be proud to have delivered it at a 
tavern dinner. But get the ear of your 
audience — nay, get their minds and 
their hearts, by means of some passion 
or prejudice not at all of vour awaken- 
ing — ^pour forth upon tnem words — 
words — words — ^be apparently impas- 
sioned, rapt yourself — and having once 

fot hold of ihem, never relax your 
lold"— out then with tropes, figures, 
metaphors, and similies, in what ap- 
pears to be one uncontrollable flood, or 
sadden blaze ; but allof which has beon 



190 



Moore § Life of Sheridan. 



ICK*. 



¥rritten> and re-writtai, and deliveml^ 
twenty tiroes before^ till it is as part of 
yourself; and can diere be any doubt 
that you will prevail over assembled 
crowds, and on some fortunate occasion 
perhaps win the everlasting fame of a 
sreat speaker^ omnipotent over the 
reelingB and judgments of men ? Such 
things have often been, and perhaps 
are not achievable but by men of ge- 
nios, although that is doubtful ; but 
that such triumphs, splendid as they 
fure, are positive proofs of sur})assing 
eloquence— eloquence true as that of 
Pericles or Demosthenes, or Chatham 
or Grattan — ^will not be thought by any 
one who knows under what delusion 
the spirits of men may be brought, 
when swayed by their own united sym- 
paildes, and the prodigious power of 
all their suddenly roused and unrea« 
aoning passions. 

We nave left ourselves no room to 
moralize ; and, indeed, it is well, for 
tilie chief reason why the world dis« 
HIks moralizing writers is, that on all 
great and affecting occasions it mora- 
lizes for itself. When men of genius 
di^race and d^ade themselves, or 
by any means whatever are seen to be 
dls^aced and degraded, does not the 
world weep ? It has many faults, but 
it is not a cold-hearted world. ' It 
says, ■ ^' Let every man take care of 
himself, and ^ould he not do so, but 
perish in want and misery, I will weep 
over him, if at least he be a man 
whom living I admired or loved." 
This Ip all that can be expected, all 
that ought to be done, and were it 
otherwise, we should be worse off 
than we are in this state of being. 
Sheridan would ruin himself, and he 
did so, in soul, body, and estate. 
Some of his friends behaved well to 
him— others ill — others indifferently, 
but to himself he himself behaved 
worst of all, and thence a blasted re- 
putation, beggary, starvation, death, 
and an arrested corpse. The laws of 
society, good and honest, but, no 
doubt^ somewhat stem and inexorable 
laws, took their usual course, and had 
their revenge at last on him who had 
so often heM them in derision. Ri- 
chard Brinsley Sheridan was for many 
years not an honest man. Charity 
loses both its character and its power 
on the unprincipled, and all the friends 
on eardi could not have saved him 
from ruin. Richardson, we believe, 
or some one of his many social friends^ 



said, '' That maka Shiaridait rich^Mid 
you would immediately mako- him 
everything that was good*" A aotry 
saying ] and a severe libel on his chft- 
racter. Give a man all he ceuld de- 
sire in this life, and he will neither 
beg, borrow, nor steal ! . 

We remember the editor of the 
Edinburgh Review having been mneh 
abused, some years ago, for writing 
rather sharply, in an article about 
Bums, of tne improvident hablta of 
too many men of genius. The senti- 
ments he then uttered were moat eK-< 
cellent. Because Natnre gives a man 
a vivid imagination — ^fancy— wit— ^lo* 
quence — and so forth, does she give to 
him any sort of right whatevor to act 
immorally or dishonestly, more than 
to the veriest dolt that ever broke 
stones, without a thought beyond, for 
the ]\Iacadamizing of the highwaya i^ 
The temptations of the latter to dnnk, 
devour, deceive, lie all day a-bed, run 
into debt, cheat, swindle, steal^rob, and 
murder, are far — ^far greater than any 
temptations that can assail the mana- 
ger of Drury-Lane, or any other the- 
atre. But no excuse for a dull, stu- 
pid, heavy man, who keeps the table 
on a snore, when he cheats his credi- 
tors. It goes hard enough with him, 
should he even be an honest bankrupt. 
Decent, prosperous people, are shy of 
his company, and do not immecliately 
recognize his person in the cabin of a 
steam-boat. But be a wit and a {;&- 
nius^-and not only will your vices and 
delinquencies be pardoned, when you 
are alive, but after death you will un- 
dergo a sort of a dubious canonization. 
All your friends, perhaps even yoor 
King, who had often and often kept 
you f^om jail, will be abused ibr not 
obliging you to be an honest man. To 
speak the truth of you — ^that is, to say 
that you were a dishonestman — wiU be 
accounted shameful scurrility against 
the dead. Of your brutal habit»— 
your loose manners — your shamefhl 
and shameless sensualities— your utter 
destitution of all manliness of soidr— 
and seared callousness alike to princi- 
ple and feeling — ^no man must speak, 
as he values me character of a^;entle- 
man — and no one, it will be said, who 
knows how to appreciate gmiua^ and 
mourn over its extinction, willfed any 
disposition to remember sndi thingaof 
him, whose sallies of wit wen ineK^ 
haustible, whose repartees w€re irre- 
sistible, whose prologues and qu« 

9 



18«fl.3 



Mo&nti LVk (fSktridm. 



VSi 



logaei eould iaye plays from being 
-dunned^ who absolutely wrote some- 
thing nearly as good as the B^gar's 
Opera^ and never was known to be at a 
hm even for a pun in all his life. 

We have now spoken out, freely and 
without restraint, and be it, without 
much consideration ; for on a subject 
80 notorious, what need of considera- 
tion ? Mr Moore has, we think, pitch- 
ed his tone with sound judgment and 
right feeling, when speaking of She- 
ridan's general character. We have 
heard him blamed, most absurdly, for 
unsparing severity, but no charge can 
be more unfounded. He has not hid- 
den the truth under too deep veil, nei- 
ther has he blazoned it forth. Every- 
body sees what his own opinions and 
sentiments are, and while he has de- 
ceived no one, be has, as a biographer, 
endeavoured to present the subject of 
his memoir in as favourable a Hght as 
possible. A more timid and tempo- 
rizing biographer would have left on 
our minds a more painful impression ; 
a less sympathizing biographer would 
have left sterner thoughts. Men will 
judge for themselves ultimately of the 
merits and demerits of Sheridan as a 
man ; but they will not demand the 
utmost justice from the writer of the 
Memoirs of such a man as Sheridan. 
It was his duty not to blind the world, 
if, indeed, that had been possible ; it 
was his duty, too, to have a kind lean- 
ing towards so highly-gifted a man, 
and in decidedly showing that, he has 
done credit both to his own head and 
his own heart. He has, on the whole, 
executed a difficult task better — at 
least as well as any one we could name ; 
and the reception of these volumes, 
with all their imperfections, proves, 
that the work is honourable both to 
himself and the imfortunate subject. 

Of Sheridan, as a dramatist, there 
can be but one opinion. He stands at 
the head of all comedy since Shak- 
speare. Tried on the three questions, 
of plot, character, and dialogue, he is 
superior to all of France, Spain, and 
England. Moliere has more humour, 
a stronger conception of comic con- 
trast, and a more decided expression 
of human absurditv; but he is as 
coarse in his materials, as rude in their 
management. The variety and inven- 
tion of Calderon will probably never 
be equalled ; but his endless mtrica- 
cy of adventure supersedes character. 
Vol.. XIX. 



and it fiital to inttfrail ia the oatat- 
trophe* 

Jonson in character. Gibber in plot, 
and Congreve in dialogue, have ^chi- 
bited great powers. But their merits 
are now too remote for admiration on 
the stage. Their coarseness is exces- 
sive ; their views of life wero taken 
either from books or from an exclu- 
sive class of society ; with much ad- 
mirable art, they give but little evi- 
delice of having looked into the naturo 
of even their own day ; and their co- 
medies have thus disappeared from 
the stage. It is the combination of 
singular dexterity of dramatic lan- 
guage, happy insight into the peculia- 
rities of the better rank of society, and 
simplicity and strength of plot, that 
make Sheridan to this hour thp re- 
source of the British theatre. 

Sheridan's first comedy, ^^ The Ri- 
vals," was brought out at Covent- 
Garden on the 17th of January 1775. 
As he was bom in September 1751, 
he was then little more than twent^r- 
three years old. There were theatri- 
cal delays, too, in the production of 
this play. Sheridan, in a preface of 
thanks to Harris the manager, men- 
tions his original work as having been 
twice the length, which was " kindly 
cut down by Mr Harris's iudgment to 
its present size," — a kindness which, 
however absolutely essential, was per- _ 
haps remembered in PuflP's agonies, 
— the " prompter's double cuts." — 
All this must have taken time, and in 
our conjecture he may be concluded 
to have written the play at one-and- 
twenty. 

Early instances of skill in comedy 
have not been unfrequent ; btit She- 
ridan's style has a characteristic know- 
ledge of the world, an easy finesse, 
and a sly severity, that at once dis- 
tinguish him from his predecessors, 
and seem to imply maturity of mixing 
with mankind. 

Yet all this may have been with- 
out a miracle. We are to recollect, in 
the first place, Sheridan's genealogy. 
He was the son of a theatrical mana- 
ger, and of a popular authoress ahd 
dramatist. He imbibed the drama on 
both sides. All his early habitudes 
were connected with the drama. The 
family library was a repertorium of 
plays; he probably never heard his 
father speak of anything with respect 
but a stock-piece, nor the family cir- 

Q 



Moore's Ltfe of Sheridan, 



1«8 

cky in their most confidential mood% 
converse upon anything with more en- 
thusiasm tnan the prospects of *' the 
season." Surrounded on all hands with 
theatric talk^ theatric friends, and thea- 
tric interests^ Sheridan's first dream 
of glory or food must have visited him 
in the shape of stage triumph. Hete 
was the inspiration. 

In the second place, Sheridan's ear- 
liest residence was with his family in 
Bath. In the salient time of life, when 
man takes his direction for every fu- 
ture year of it, when the sight of a 
militia parade incites him into the fu- 
ture conqueror of India or the Penin- 
sula, or the sight of the four-and-twen- 
ty " prebendaries," each snug in his 
stall, 

** With the Dean, the Bishop, and Vicars 
choral," 

involves his soul in visions of Lawn, 
or the procession of the Judges to the 
, County-hall, inflames him with rival- 
ry of the Hales and Blackstones, and 
tne love of black-letter and buzz wigs, 
to the end of his days; or last and 
most visionary, when the sight of wo- 
man in her graces makes him mad, 
guilty of stanzas to the moon, nay, 
rashly resolute enough for matrimony. 
—In that day of vivid impressions, 
Sheridan lived — in Bath ! 

We know no spot on €arth which 
more deserves a panegyrist. What is 
our modern boast of charity, with its 
Bedlams and Bethesdas, the largest of 
them incapable of holding more than 
a very few thousand patients? — What 
are our houses of refuge and hospi- 
tals, compared to the sweeping bene- 
volenoe of Beau Nash, when he devo- 
ted a whole city to the purpose ; when 
he erected In the swamps of Somerset 
a caravansera five miles round for the 
halt in mind and body, for the incu- 
rably idle, the desperately card-play- 
ing, and the inveterately splenetic ; a 
great and unrivalled receptacle for the 
turgid with idleness, opulence, and 
bile, and the tribes that prey upon 
them by the laws of nature and the 
diploma of the college in Warwick- 
Lane ? The language of this assem- 
blage of gossips and hypochondriacs, 
of the poor living by their wits, and 
the ricn panting through a round of 
pills, whist, and mutual sneer, was 
echoing in Sheridan's ear from morn- 
ing till night. Here he found his dia- 
logue. 



tWh. 



In the third placo, 1m wm detp 
read in the whole catiuogue of fiiigoU 
ten farces ; and as he had no scmploi 
about Uiem, or anything elae that fae> 
could turn to profit, he plundered 
widiout a pang. His characters he^ 
generally stole ; his plots always. To 
all this, we must add, that the state 
of his family fiuances, a state which, 
as all the world knows, has been co» 
pied with filial fidelity, supplied of it- 
self an unequalled access to his know- 
ledge of the world. From the first 
drawing of a ^' bill, not to be paid," 
to the final clearance by the legislato- 
rial abstersion, the whole is a course 
of education. The pleasant subter-* 
fuge, the ready invention, the direct 
encounter, and the dexterous retreat, 
are all incomparable sharpeners of the 
wit that lieth in a man ; and perhaps 
the merest rustic would find the six 
weeks of his prison institute place him 
on a rank with the intellects of even 
an attorney who had never enjoyed 
the same advantage. In matters oi 
this order, Sheridan was aufaii. His 
first knowledge of money was obvi- 
ously in its issue from a Jew's pocket, 
and he never wanted a guinea while 
there was a Jew to lend it. According- 
ly, we find that his habitual thoughts 
are borrowed from the same source as 
his treasure; his choicest witticisms 
turn upon the bill trade, on indorse- 
ments, protests, post-obits, securitieB, 
flying kites, men of straw, and the 
whole mystery of Hebrew dealings. 
His plays always have a prominent 
Jew, or a Christian a Jew in eyexj* 
thing but beard and Shibboleth. Yet 
the generosity of his nature, gives 
good words, all that he had to give; 
and he deals not unjustly with the 
character of the ancient nation ; his 
Moses and his Isaac are both pleasant 
fellows, and though a little roguish, a 
sacrifice to truth of character, yet al- 
together not much of a difierent de- 
scription from the shaven part of man- 
kind. 

It is well known that this clever 
play, with all the advantages of the 
manager's especial confidence of suc- 
cess, of the whole force of his exoeU 
lent company, and of all the fame of 
all the Sheridans, yet failed ; was^ in 
fact, all but d-Hcl, and was with- 
drawn. Mr Moore attributes this di- 
saster to the bad acting of Lee in 
Sir Lucius. But potent as a single 
unlucky actor may be in the over- 



i9mr\ 



Mwfre'i lAfi of Sheridan. 



1«7 



once they fairly commenoOj are preci- 
pitous and rapid beyond all other forms 
of ruin. But Sheridan's powers were 
eminently dramatic^ and it is beyond 
question^ that a regular exertion of 
inem^ fearless of all results but that 
of leaving the theatre without new 
performances^ be they of what rank 
they might, must have placed his es- 
tablishment at the head of the Eng- 
lish stage. But he was habitually in- 
dolent, as all the world knows ; and, 
besides, he seems to have had the com- 
mon vice of early triumph, and to have 
been childishly nervous about his fame. 

« The School for Scandal," it is 
true, appeared subsequently to this 
period, but the greater part of it had 
been written long 'before : it would 
probably never have been attempted 
after " The Duenna." Itis remarkable, 
that the most distinguished drama- 
tists, when from their celebrity they 
have been taken into dramatic firms, 
have seldom been of any use to their 
partnerships. 

When Betterton, in 1695, opened 
his theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 
Congreve was the first Dramatist of 
his age. The Comedy of *' Love for 
Love," was brought out at the New 
Theatre, and all the " Town" crowd- 
ed to it for the season. On the 
strength of this, the patentees gave 
Congreve a share in the house, on the 
single condition of his supplying them 
with a play every year. But his fame 
stood in his way. He obviously dread- 
ed to risk his laurels, and it was not 
till two years after that he ventured 
to produce the " Mourning Bride." 
The exigencies of the house called on 
him again. He wrote, we may suppose, 
reluctantly, for his next work, " The 
Way of the World," played in 1699, 
was his worst. The casual diminu- 
tion of his usual applause repelled 
the sensitive author from the course 
to which his genius, and in some de- 
gree his dutf , urged him. He left the 
theatre to struggle and to perish, and 
from that time gave up his pen to 
madrigals and sonnets, to Lord Hali- 
fax and my Lady's eye-brow. His 
places under Government allowed of 
his doing this with impunity, and for 
the sake of his fame, he abandoned 
his reputation. 

Sheridan's first effort as manager, 
was an alteration of Vanburgh's Co- 
medy, " The Relapse ;" — a profligate 



and yet feeble performanoe in iti an- 
ginal state, which Sheridan, if. he left 
it less profligate, left still more feeble 
This revival^was under the title of 
'' A Trip to Scarborough," and was 
played February 24, 1777. 

" The School for Scandal," was first 
performed May 8, 1777. ' 

Mr Moore's details of the composition 
of " The School for Scandal" are per- 
haps among the most amusing in die 
volume. They are collected from the 
most authentic sources, and when they 
may not strike by their importance, 
they will interest by their novelty: 
He gives a note of Garrick, written 
four days after the first performance. 

" Mr Garrick's best wisnes iand com- 
pliments to Mr Sheridan. . , 

" How is the Saint to-day ? A gentle- 
man who is as mad as myself about 
the School remarked, that the charac- 
ters upon the stage at the falling of 
the screen^ stand too long before they 
speak. — I thought so too the first 
night. — He said it was the same on the 
second, and was remarked by others; 
though they should be astonished and 
a little petrified, yet it may be carried 
to too great a length ; — all praise is 
Lord Lucan's last night." 

Mr Moore in giving the " rise and 
progress" if this fine drama, justly re- 
marks, that nothing could be less like 
the perfection of this finished work 
than its rudiments ; that no man took 
more anxious and persevering care in 
correction than its author. 

The *' Sketch," which was after- 
wards enlarged into " The School for 
Scandal," was written probably before 
Sheridan had tried the stage. It was 
one of those Jetix d^ esprit, the natural 
progeny of Bath, and of which a par- 
entage and succession have been nur- 
tured by that acrid and grotesque po- 
pulation from the days of its first 
pump to the last printing season. Re- 
tired and dissatisfied public men ; idle 
members of the universities ; opulent 
barristers, bitter and bedridden with 
gout ; poets, too rich or too old or too 
keenly criticised, to make anything 
longer than a copy of " verses to the 
master of the ceremonies," or the Sa- 
brina of the pump-room, — all those 
harpies and vultures of Spleen let 
loose upon a perpetual feast of bilious 
East Indians, bloated men of Man- 
chester and Liverpool, Irish adven- 
turers, struggling physicians, loung- 



ing parwms^ and laidiet of rank, chiefly 
remarkable for the delicacy of their 
reputations^ amply account for the re-> 
dundant sourness of the ^^ City of In- 
dolence," for the " Bath Sketches," 
the " Intercepted Epistles," the " Dr 
Warner's Ghost detected Waltzing," 
the *^ Conversations of a Woman of 
Quality with her Monkey," the " Po- 
pillons," the " Wroughtoniad," the 
''Sorrows of Dr Vegetable," the ''thou- 
sand and one Burlesques on King, 
the late Master of the Ceremonies ;" 
•and in the " Bath Characters," the 
" Bath Guide" is but the loudest and 
•tallest of an immense family, and An- 
•tey, but the crowned bard of a host, 
^^ach decorated with its appropriate 
tea leaf. 

• Sheridan's Sketch bears the family 
on the irontal. 

It is among the many distinctions 
of the Novel and the Drama,' that in 
the former the names of persons are 
not required to bear any similitude to 
their qualities ; and that in the Come- 
dy they are. The palpable reason is, 
that the Novel is a picture of general 
life; the Comedy of particular cha- 
racter. The dexterity of the author is 
tried in discoyering a name sufficient- 
ly expressive, yet not bearing the 
marks of being manufactured for the 
purpose. Thus the " Lackwits,"*' Mo- 
ney-traps," " Plausibles/' of the an- 
cient stage, are too palpably forced in- 
to the service ; and the object is never 
completely obtained, but when a name 
in common use can be adopted into 
the dramatis persona?. " Lockit" and 
" Peachem"are fortunate seizures from 
common life. The " Penruddocks," 
" Beverleys," " Bellamonts," &c. the 
whole stock of romantic nomenclature, 
'are totally useless to dramatic effect. 
They express nothing but the inopia 
verborum of their author. 

But another difficulty occurs, pecu- 
liar to the Drama. The qualities of 
members of the same family are, for 
the sake of dramatic contrast, made to 
consist of totally distinct elements. 
Yet they must in general bear the 
same name, and the artifice of the au- 
thor is tasked to find a name compre- 
hensive enough for all their varieties. 
Macklin, in the " Man of the World," 
after inventing the crude appellative of 
" Sir Pertinax M'Sycophant" for his 
bitter, louring, and worldly hero, is 
' forced to apply the title to his wife, and 



qfSherukui* 



DNk 



exhibits a M'SyooplufiaCyfienaearfliid 

unworldly. His wn, ^Beribod-wiA 
model of manliness, feeling andindiK 
pendence, escapes from this badgD 
only by the awkward contri?anoe oHi 
name taken from a relative. Of Ais 
difficulty, our Comedies, old and new, 
give numberless examples. ' 

The " School for Scandal" ezhilnti 
striking instances of sacoess in tbiii 
point. It has, in the two brothenraiid 
Uncle Oliver, three personages distinct 
in all points but one — their all disgiii- 
sing tneir true characters. It giTte 
the three the name of " Surfitee /* a 
name not too remote from common 
use, and yet expressive of the three. 
The merit lies in discovering perhaps 
the only name that could have answer- 
ed the object. Sir Peter and Lady 
Teazle are as opposite as youth and 
age, love of scandid and fear of it, in- 
trigue and jealousy, contempt and 
fondness. But their names must be of - 
course the same ; and Teaxle<f a ikune 
not remote from common life, happily 
expresses the characters of both. 

In " The Rivals," Sheridan had not 
reached this tact ; yet " Absoiuie" was 
perhaps as good a name as cqnkL be 
suggested for a father and son equally 
self-willed. Acres is natural and suit- 
able ; Sir Lucius OTrigger is, how- 
ever, a nominal caricature. 

The merits of the play are nOw be- 
yond criticism. It stands at the head 
of all our " Comedies of Manners.'* Its 
wit, the more admirable, not from its 
remoteness, but from its obviousness, 
its strong distinctness of character, and 
its plain progress of story, leave it with- 
out a rival. 

Mr Moore thinks that Wycberley 
was the model of the ^alogue ; and 
considers Sheridan's displeasure at any 
allusion of the kind a proof. Yet a 
man of Sheridan's elegance of dilaleet 
might have been, not unnaturally, of- 
fended at the imputation of having 
drunk from that stream^'of grossness 
and vulgarity, the Fleet-ditch of Wy- 
cberley. I f he had any other model than 
the tone of that high life, into whic^ 
he was so early introduced, Ar-his 
own instinctive tact, he probably found 
it in Congreve ; undoubtedly toe most 
elegant conversational dramatist be- 
fore Sheridan, and requiring only to 
be cleared from the customary inde- 
cencies of his age to be hia cioieat . 
competitor. 



1«W0 



Moorts Lift ofSheridoMm 



The proverbialfkultsof the '^ School 
for Scandal^" are its presumed enoou- 
ragement to seductioDj^ as in the in- 
siance of Lady Teazle's arguments 
i^ainst old husbands, and to prodigy 
htVj in the triumph of Charles's wit 
and character. Yet, till we have a 
proof that either man or woman has 
ever been led by those poetic paths 
into ruin, we may fairly question 
the culpability of the drama. In fact, 
plays mislead no one. They may 
sometimes stimulate latent genero« 
sity or manliness, by a noble senti- 
ment or an impressive character, and 
the applause which regularly follows 
both (and loudest and most unfailing 
from the very humblest class of the 
audience), shows that the stage may be 
made a teacher to those who will reluc- 
tantly learn of more formal discipline. 

The satire on hypocrisy, the mean- 
est of all the vices, and, in general so- 
ciety, perhaps the most dangerous, 
much more than turns the beam. 

The faults of the plot are, its tardi- 
ness in the first two acts ; the super- 
fluity of the two scenes of the *^ scan- 
dalous coterie," a splendid superflu- 
ity, and the fifth act. The interest is 
wrought up to its point by the dis- 
covery of Lady Teazle behind the 
icreen, and all that follows is mere 
explanation, not worth the develope- 
ment, or incident of no importance to 
the play. The curtain should fall on 
the discovery. 

Charles's love for Maria, a love 
which never gives rise to a meeting 
nor a word, is one of the blots of the 
play, and it becomes still more ridi- 
culous from the present custom of ei- 
ving the lady's part to a mere girl, wno 
talks of men and matrimony in a bib 
and tucker. 

Sheridan's last " legitimate work," 
" The Critic," was brought out in 1779, 
evidently formed on the plan of ** The 
Rehearsal," and even with some pla- 
giarisms from the dialogue of that 
clever and obsolete perfomuince. 
Fielding's '' Pasquin," too, was a con- 
tributor ; and " The Critic" is to be 
looked on chiefly as the most ingeni- 
ous of pasticcios. A sketch of this 
fkrce seems to have been the earliest 
of all his dramatic efforts, as its com- 
pletion was his last. The first half of 
this celebrated farce yields to nothing 
of its author, if it does not exceed all 
his works in strength of language and 
dexterity of sarcasm. Puff^ dnerip- 

Voi. XIX. 



ltd 

tion of his modefl of lifb» his eludda« 
tion of the popular art of puffing, and. 
the excoriation of Sir Fretful^ are all 
masterly. The second part is not 
merely inferior, but unequivocally 
tiresome. Sheridan was a remarkably 
good-natured man, and there are few 
wits on record who bore their facul« 
ties more meekly. Cumberland, too^ 
was a man of gentle manners, a grace- 
ful and accomplished person, and 
though a popular dramatist, totally 
out of the line of rivalry. Yet every 
man has his point of susceptibility. 
Sheridan's was his drama, and some of 
those " good-natured friends" that are 
never wanting to public character, had 
conveyed stories of Cumberland's 
sneering at " The School for Scandal." 

One of the old theatrical recoIIec« 
tions is, that Sheridan, in his anxiety 
to collect opinions on the first nighty 
asked what Mr Cumberland had said 
of the play. 

" Not a syllable," was the iinswer. 

'* But did he seem amused ?" 

" Why, faith, he might have been 
hung up beside nnde Oliver's picture. 
He had the d — d disinheriting coun- 
tenance. Like the ladies and gentle* 
men on the walls, he never moved a 
muscle." 

" Devilish ungrateful that," said 
Sheridan, " for I sat out his tragedy 
last week, and laughed from beginning 
to end of it." 

From this feeling something might 
be expected to come, and the e:q>ecta« 
tion was prodigally fulfilled in Sir 
Fretful. Cumberland complained bit- 
terly of the attack, and declared, that 
on the first night of the School for 
Scandal he was not in Drury-Lane, 
but in Bath. But the shaft was al« 
ready flown; and Cumberland's no« 
torious admiration of his own labours^ 
and equally notorious sneer at every 
one else's, ranged the laughers against 
him for life. 

Fragments of other projected plays 
are given hj Mr Moore. What they 
might have been rendered by Sheri- 
dan's extraordinary talent for turning 
his rudest material into value, must 
now be mere matter of poiyecture. 
" The Foresters" seems too extrava- 

fant for anything but melo-drame. 
lis sketch of " Affectation" shows the 
keenness with which he collected his 
hints from every rank of society ; yet 
the subject seems too feeble for the 
stem requisitioua of the stage. Affec* 

R 



Moore s Life of Sheridan* 



130 

tation is a common quality^ but it is a 
sickly one ; it produces but little effect 
in actual Me^ and that effect is scarce- 
ly capable of transfer to the drama^ 
where character is almost incident. 
The subject of " The School for Scan- 
dal" was, on the contrary, palpably 
pregnant with dramatic power ; scan- 
dal, the most' pertinacious, cutting, 
universal, and characteristic of all the 
evils of civilized society: 
Sheridan wrote some of those com- 



cJfa. 



positions which . are called far by Ae 
chances of the Theatre. '^ A Moi«m 
on Garrick's Death," in 1779, a feeble 
and tedious production, prologues^ 
epilogues, &c« From the spedmeUE 
given by Mr Moore, he would have 
been popular in the latter style, if his 
general dislike for exertion had not 
so soon led him to abandon everythin|^ 
that belonged to a career for wmdi he 
was more eminently marked oat by 
nature than any man of his century. 



THE QUARTERLY REVIEW QF DA MACMICHAEL ON CONTAGION AN9 THX . 

FLAOUE. 



The number of the Quarterly Re"- 
view which is just published, contains 
an article on the contagiousness of the 
plague, which professes to be a review 
of Dr Macmichael's " Brief Sketch of 
the Progress of Opinion upon the Sub- 
ject of Contagion," but which says 
noUiing about nim or his book. This 
is not fair, particularly as the review- 
er, in that part of his article in which 
he destroys the authority of the anti- 
contagionists, by showing their igno- 
rance of facts, derives his most power- 
ful argument from Br Macmichael. 
The Westminster Review had said, if 
the plague had been contagious, it 
would have been so manifest that it 
never could have been doubted, for no 
one ever doubted that the small-pox 
was contagious. To this assertion Dr 
Jtiacmichaers pamphlet is an unan- 
swerable refutation. He shows, that 
as late as the great English Hippo- 
crates, Sydenham, physicians were not 
aware that the small-pox was conta- 
gious, but attributed it to other causes, 
particularly unhealthy states of the^air, 
and that the notion of contagion, so 
&r from being obvious and manifest 
even in those diseases in which it is 
now the most certain, as small-pox, 
measles, and scarlet fever, was arrived 
at very slowly and gradually. When 
Dr M'Letn was examined on the sub- 
ject of contagion by a committee of 
the House of Commons, he was asked 
how he explained the fact, that people 
who shut themselves up in a house, 
while the plague was raging about, 
escaped the disease ? His answer was, 
that their safety depended on the air 
in which the house is situated, on its 
elevation from the groimd — on shut- 
ting the windows at the most danger- 
ous periods of the day, so as not to 



allow a draught of air from the towiu 
On this Dr Macmichad's remark is 
very striking,^— 

'^ Now it may be worth while taaio 
quire, what is the exact sitaatioa of 
tnose Frank inhabitants of Constan- 
tinople, who, during the height of the 
plague in that city, shut themseLves 
up and adopt the precautions of a vo- 
luntary quarantine ; and I wiU select 
the residence of the British embaasy, 
which is usually called the ISngliah 
palace, as an example. It is situated 
m Pera, and stands in the centre of a 
large garden, which is surrounded by 
high walls. It immediately acyoins a 
Turkish cemetery, where multitadea 
are buried daily during the season of ^ 
pestilence. AU the windows of Uie 
apartments usually .inhabited look to 
the south and south-west; they are 
almost always kept open, ana the 
freest ventilation constantly maintain- 
ed. The inmates gf the palace take 
exercise in the garden, which is of se- 
veral acres extent, at all hours, and 
expose themselves without the dight- 
est reserve, to every change of tem- 
perature; in ftbi>rt, the only precau- 
tion they adopt is to remain wit&in 
their walls, and avoid the possibility 
of touching any one infected with the 
plague. If it were possible that the 
disease should be excited by the .air, 
what could save the English resddenta 
from its attacks ? They are aa mucli 
exposed to the influence of the atmos- 
phere, particularly to tbe pestilential 
blasts from the south, as if they ^ere 
walking the streets of Constantinodie^ 
and yet they uniformly escape. Bat 
it may be observed, that the wind hero 
blows generally from the eastorwest^ 
that is up or down the channel qf tlw 
Bosphorus, and when it sets in ftaok 



i««6,;] 



Dr Macmiehael of» Contagion and the Plague. 



the west, which is often the case, the 
sales are charged with die effluvia 
from the city of Constantinople. Nor 
is the assertion true, that the Turks 
themselves have no idea of the infec- 
tious nature of the piague ; many of 
them helieve it to he so, and the most 
enlightened of them all, the Pasha of writing two long articles to prove that 



131 

If this is not intentional fraud, it is 
a curious accident in composition, and 
puts me in mind of the mistakes in 
tradesmen's hills, which always hap» 
pen to be in their own favour. Now 
for an instance of indisputable folly. 
The Westminster Reviewers, after 



^SyV^> adopts a quarantine for his own 
security. When the plague is at 
Cairo, he either retires to a garden 
situated about two leagues from the 
city, and surrounds mmself by his 
troops, or he shuts himself up in a 
fortress on the other side of the Nile 
at Gizeh." 
In the statements of the anti-con- 



the plague and all other fevers are 
never propagated by contagion, relate 
the following case. — A poor family, 
consisting of four persons, were at- 
tacked with malignant fever ; they all 
lay in the same bed in an exceedin^y 
close and (Hrty apartment, where they 
were visited by two physicians ; the 
one, whenever ne entered the room. 



tagionists, there are some instances of went to the window, threw it open. 



fraud and of folly which it is utterly 
astonishing that the reviewer should 
have overlooked. Can it be believed 
that the Westminster reviewers have 
ouoted Dr Russell as an authority for 
the uncontagiousness of the plague, 
although, in point of fact, he is the 
greatest authority for the opposite opi- 
nion. No man ever brought to bear 
upon the subject such a combination 
of all the requisites for a right judg- 
ment about it, namely, great experi- 
ence of the disease, great reading 
about it, and great judgment. " Dr 
Russell," says the Westminster Re- 
viewer, " has recorded a fact in con- 
firmation of the non-contagious nature 
of this malady, which, for the singu- 
lar completeness of the proof it af- 
fords, is of extraordinary value." 

Who would not believe, from the 
foregoing passage, that Dr Russell, for 
many years physician to the British 
factor]^ at Aleppo, living in the thick 
and thin of the plague — who, that did 

Ereviously know otherwise, would not 
elieve that he was an anti-contagion- 
ist ? When I first read the above pas- 
sage, it led me into this error. 1 have 
shown it to several persons, and all 
have acknowledged, that if they had 
pot previously known to the contrary, 
it would have led them to suppose that 
Dr Russell was an audiority for the 
non-contagious nature of the plague. 



observed the sick at a distance, and 
staid a short time — ^he escaped the 
disease. The other took no precau- 
tion, examined the skin of me pa- 
tients closely, and inhaled their efflu- 
via and breath. He was seized with 
the disease, and died of it This case 
might be supposed to be decisive of 
the question; but no, say they, it 
proves that the disease is not a conta- 
gious, but a contaminative fever. The 
disease, it is true, was communicated 
from the patient to the physician, but 
not by a specific contagion generated 
by the body of the patient, but bv the 
exhalations from his body, rendered 
poisonous by beiiig concentrated. In 
short, the fever was not a contagious, 
but a contaminative disease. It is 
plain, however, that it was a commu- 
nicable one, and that is the practical 
question. 

"^ O that such difference should be 
*Twixt tweedledum and tweedlee.*' 
A pretty consolation this to a person 
who had been induced, by the pre- 
vious argument, to expose himself 
without precaution to the plague, or 
typhus, to tell him, '^ True it is you 
have catight the plague from the pa- 
tients whom vou nave approached, but 
be of good cneer, for I am happy to 
tdl you that you are dying, not of a . 
contagious, but of a contaminative dis-* 
ease. 



TO MY BIRDIE. 



Here's onlie you an' me, Birdie-?— here's onlie you an' me ! 
An' there you sit, you humdrum fool, 
Sae mute and miopish as an owl. 

Sour companie ! 



i. 






19t To my Birdie. V^^ 

Sing me a little sang. Birdie — lilt up a little lay ! 

When folks are here, fu' fain are ye '. 

To stun 'em wi' yere minstrelsie. 

The lee lang day. 

An' now we're onlie twa. Birdie— an' now we're onlie twa ! 
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie. Birdie, 
To charm wi' yere wee hurdigurdie 

Dull Care awa ! '• • 

Ye ken, when folks are pair'd. Birdie— ye ken, when folks are pair'4» 
Life's fair an' foul an' freakish weather. 
An' light an' lumb'ring loads, thegither 

Maun a' be shared — ■' ^ ■ 

An' shared wi' lovin' hearts. Birdie — wi' lovin' hearts an free, m 
Fu' fashions loads may weel be bome^ 
An' roughest roads to velvet turn. 

Trod cheerftJly I 

- We've a' our cares an' crosses. Birdie — we've a' our cares and crfljiao I 
But then, to sulk and sit sae glum — 
Hout tout, what gude o' that can come 

To mend ane's losses ? - 

Ye're dipt in wiry fence. Birdie — ye're dipt in wiry fence ; , 
An' aiblins I— gin I mote gang 
Upo' a wish — ^wad be, or lang, 

Wi' friens hr hence. 

But what's a wish ? ye ken. Birdie ! — ^but what's a wish ? ye ien ! 

Nae cantraip naig, like hers o' Fife, f 

Wha '^ damit" wi' the auld weird wife 

Flood, fell, an' fen« 

'Tb true, ye're fiimish'd fair. Birdie— 'tis true, ye're fumish'd fkur» 
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings. 
Wad lift ye, where yon lav'rock sings. 

High up i' th' air* 

But then that wire sae Strang, Birdie — ^but then that wire i^M^stilv^ ! 
And I mysel], sae seemin' free, 
Nae wings have I to waften me 

Whar fain I'd gang. 

An* say we'd baith our wills. Birdie — ^we'd each our wilfa' way ! 
Whar lavrocks hover, falcons fly. 
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie 

Whar wishes stray. 

An' ae thing, wed I wot, Birdie — an' ae thing, weel I wot. 
There's Ane abune the highest sphere, 
Wha cares for a' his creatures here, 

Marks ev'ry lot— 

Whaguards the crowned King, Birdie — ^wha guards the crowned King, 
An* taketh heed for sic as me, 
Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, 

Puir witless thing ! 

Sae now, let's baith cheer up. Birdie ! — an* sin' we're onlie twa, 
Aff han', let's ilk ane do our best 
To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest. 

Dull Care, awa* 



13^3 



iViNf tf LUtrarkt, No. /. 



151 



NUOAE LITERABI^. NO. I. 



6RATTAN. 

I WAS in the gallery of the House 
of Commons on the night when the 
late Mr Grattan made his first speech 
in the English Parliament. The sub- 
ject was Catholic Emancipation ; the 
question was opened by Mr Fox. I 
went at eight in the mornings waited 
at the door of the gallery till twelve^ 
and then had my ribs nearly broken 
in a squeeze to get in. The House 
met at four ; at five Mr Fox rose ; 
he spoke till after eight in a way which 
I need not describe. He was rollowed 
by Mr Percival, then by Dr Duigenan^ 
and then Mr Grattan rose. It was a 
striking sight and moment. The lower 
part of the House was crammed with 
Members^ so that numbers could find 
room only in the upper side galleries. 
The fame of his eloquence had raised 
great expectations^ yet repeated in- 
stances of the faHure of Irish elo- 
J[uenoe^ when transplanted into £ng- 
andj caused considerable anxiety^ es- 
pecially among the Irish^ of whom 
there were numbers in the Strangers^ 
Gallery^ and still more at the outer 
door^ waiting to hear the success of 
their champion. After a pause of dead 
silence he began. He was dressed^ if 
my eyes did not deceive me> in blacky 
with yellow gloves — ^his queer person^ 
his large red face^ his limbs mrown 
about in a most rapid and graceless 
way — his pronupciation, which to my 
ear sounded less like the brogue of an 
Irishman^ than like the broken Eng- 
lish of a foreigner — his plunging head- 
long into his subject without any of 
the introductory remarks which are so 
common in English oratory^ and his 
epigrammatic sentences, altogether 
produced a sensation so totally new 
to the English House of Commons^ 
that for manv minutes it was doubt- 
ful^ among tne best judees of Parlia- 
mentary eloquence, whether it would 
not terminate in a complete failure. 
During this interval of suspense, I 
have heard on good authority the fol- 
lowing incident. Mr Pitt, who was 
sitting next Mr Canning, manifested 
the greatest possible anxiety ; he 
seemed to shrink every now and then 
when the efibct of what was said bor- 
dered on the ofi^msive : but a few mi- 
nutes passed— Grattan became aocns- 



tomed to the House, the House to him 
— the orator, though singular, became 
successful and bnlliant in the highest 
degree ; and at the moment when it 
was plain that all was safe, Mr Pitt 
turned round to Mr Canning, and 
clapping him on the knee, and with 
a strong expression of delight in his 
countenance, exclaimed, *' It will do 1" 
He was too great himself to be jealous 
of another, even of one who was to be 
his political opponent 

DUKB OP WELLINGTON. 

I have heard Lord Wellesley talk 
about his brother, the Duke of Wel- 
lington — about his military career, and 
about the peculiarities of mind which 
led to his splendid successes, and ena- 
bled him to conquer the conqueror oi 
the world. He said that he was the 
opposite to a cunning man— that he 
had done all by simple manly heroism ; 
and that he could not define his chai» 
racter better than by the following 
lines in Milton's ** Samson Agonistes> 
which ought to be placed at ti^e foot 
of his pictures :*- 

He all their ammunition 
And feats of war defeats. 
With plain heroic magnitude of nund^ 

MOST OFFENSIVE OP MONUMENTS. 

Passing through Brussds on my 
way to the Rhine, we of course paid a 
visit to the plains of Waterloo. On 
our way we stopped at an ugly red 
brick church, on the right side of the 
road, where there are monuments to 
many of the English officers who fell 
on this occasion. We were conducted 
by a grey-haired old man into die 
chapel, and there, on both sides along 
the walls, are inscriptions to the me- 
morv, of not single individuals, but 
whole companies. The thought that 
this splendid victory was purchased 
bv the lives of so many in the flower 
of their age, full of life, and joy, and 
heroism, oppresses the heart. With 
this mournful feeling we left the cha- 
pel, and were conducted through a 
oirty lane into a little shabby garden, 
to see a large black stone, sacred to 
the memory of whom ? — the Marquis 
of Anglesea's 1^— I had almost writ- 
ten his toe. The bathos is not mere- 
ly ridiculoiuH-iC Is diigiurting. irtbe 



1 1 



i|{ 



IS* Nugcp Literariae. No, /. CMk 

iWii^ owntt of the leg did not direct land^thanks to the wrong-heftdedi 
it> h^ might have prevented it. Some 
one has written below — 



Here lies the Marquis of Angle8ea*8 limb ; 
The devil will have the reminder of him. 



AMBEA6RTS. 

The origin of this substance is in- 
volved in complete obscurity. All that 
we know of it is^ that it is most com- 
monly found in lumps floating on the 
ocean> sometimes aohering to rocks^ 
sometimes in the stomachs of fish — 
but whence does it come ? by what pro- 
cess is it formed ? Everybody knows 
the history of that greasy substance 
called Adipocire — that on digging up 
the bodies in the cemetery of St Inno- 
cent's at Faris^ many of them were 
fbund in part converted into a sub- 
stance resembling spermaceti ; and that 
it has since been ascertained^ that if the 
flesh of animals, instead of undergo- 
ing putrefaction in air, undergoes tbe 
slower changes which take place under 
water, in a running stream, it is gra- 
dually converted into this substance. 
It is not an improbable conjecture, 
that Ambergris is the flesh of dead fish 
which has undergone this change- 
that it is marine adipocire. And this 
conjecture is corroborated by a fact 
which was lately stated in one of the 
American newspapers. A marine ani- 
mal of gigantic size has lately been dis- 
covered and dug up in the neighbour- 
hood of New Orleans, in the groove of 
one of whose bones was found a matter 
closely resembling Ambergris. This 
animal, which is supposed to be extinct, 

had been buried for an incalculable warned by such who had grievous^ 
time. suffered by uneasiness in that respect* 

After some hours visiting in this naiH' 
THB PLAGUE. ucr, I returned homo. Before dinner, I 

Daring the great Plague in Lon- always drank a glass of sadc to warm 
don, in 1665, Dr Hodges was one of the stomachy r^resh the spirits^ and 
Ihe persons appointed by the College dissipate any banning lodgement of 
of raysicians to visit the sick. The the infection. I chose meats for mj. 



of some of our physicians, and the so* 
pineness of others — ^it is worth while 
knowing the means which he employ- 
ed. " As soon as I rose in the mor- 
ning early, I took the quantity of^a 
nutmeg oi the anti-pestilential electSb- 
ary ; then, after the dispatch of -pA^ 
vate concerns in my family, I ven- 
tured into a large room^ where crowds 
of citizens used to be in waiting te 
me, and there I commonly spent tw*. 
or three hours, as in an hospital, exa- 
mining the several conditions and cir- 
cumstances of all who came thither^ 
some of which had ulcers yet uncuredi 
and others to be advised under- ihe 
first symptoms of seizure ; dSl whkit 
I endeavoiured to dispatch, widi all 
possible care to their various ezigsor 
cies. As soon as thia crowid could be 
discharged, I judged it not proper fo 
go abroad fasting, and therefore gpl 
my breakfast ; after which, tiU dinner 
time, I visited the sick at their houses ;- 
whereupon, entering their houses^ I 
immediately had burnt some proper 
thing upon coals, and also kept m my 
mouth some lozenges all the while I 
was examining them. But th^ are 
in a mistake who report that physi- 
cians used on such oceasicHiB very Bol 
things, as myrrh, zedoary, angdicsj 
ginger, &c. for many, deceived therS- 
by, raised inflammations upon tibeir 
tonsils, and greatly endangered their 
lungs. I further took care npt to go 
into the rooms of the sick when I 
sweated, or was short-breathed willi 
walking, and kept my mind as coin* 
posed as possible, being sufficiently 



great Sydenham quitted London to 
avoid the contagion, but at length re- 
turned, apparently ashamed of his 
cowardice. Many physicians volun- 
teered their services on this occasion : 
among those was the celebrated Dr 



table that yielded an easie and geno* 
rous nourishment, roasted before boilr 
ed, and pickles not oidy suitahXe tc^ 
the meats, but the nature of the dis- 
temper (and, indeed, in this nuelan- 
choly time, the city greatly abounded: 



Glisson. Out of the number employed with variety of all good things of that 

in this benevolent task, nine perished, nature). I seldom, likewise, rose fimon 

Hodges survived, and has ^ven the dinner without drinking more winobr 

foUowing account of the means by After this, I had always many penoui' 

which he believes he preserved him- who came for advibe ; and, jU| soon ■» 

sdf from Uie infection. As we shall I could dispatch them, I again visalBd, 

most l^ly have the Plague in Eng- till eight or nine at nigh^ .a^^dN% 

5 



.'..I 



18«tf0 



Nugce LiUrariae* ^o. I. 



iin 



concluded the erening at home> by 
drinking to cheelrfulness of my old 
favourite liquor^ which encouraged 
sleep^ and an easie breathing through 
the pores all night. But if in the day- 
time I found the least approaches of 
the infection upon me^ as by giddiness^ 
loathing at stomach, and faintness^ I 
immediately had recourse to a glass of 
this wine, which easily drove these 
beginning disorders away by trans- 
piration. Yet in the whole course of 
the infection, I found myself ill but 
twice, but was isoon again cleared of 
its approaches by these means, and the 
help of such antidotes as I kept al- 
ways by me." In another part of his 
history of the Plague, he gives the fol- 
lowing extraordinary accoimt. Speak- 
ing of the nurses who attended the 
side, he adds, '^ These wretches, out 
of greediness to plunder the dead, 
womd strangle their patients, and 
charge it to the distemper in their 
throats ; others would secretly convey 
the pestilential taint from sores of the 
infected to those who were well. The 
case of a worthy citizen was very re- 
markable, who, being suspected dying 
by his nurse, was beforehand stripped 
by her ; but recovering again, he came 
a second time into the world naked." 
{Ijoimologia, or an Account of the 
Plague in London, in 1QQ6, by Naih, 
Hodges, M»D.) 

THE devil's walk. 

There are two kinds of plagiarisms. 
In one the thought is borrowed, but it 
is clothed in new words, is adapted to 
its new situation, and undergoes more 
or less of transmutation. This is a 
kind of plagiarism which, in the pre- 
sent stage of literature, is and ought 
to be practised, by men of the great- 
est genius. Milton describes himself 
as preparing for the composition of 
his great poem, among otner things, 
by " select and attentive reading." 
But there is another kind of plagia- 
rism, which consists in borrowing not 
only the -thoughts, but the very words 
in which they are expressed — stealing 
whole pages from, writers of eminence, 
not only without inverted commas, but 
without the slightest hint that it is 
borrowed from any one. I -had no 
notion, till lately, that this mode of 
writing with the eye and scissars, in- 
stead .of the mind and pen, was so 
common as it is. I have found, ip 
works of Bcme cekbrity and extensive 



circulation, long poYiioxis co^_ 
works that are little read, or translated 
literally from foreign . writers. Being 
at a dinner party one day, and sitting 
next an author in whose writings I 
had repeatedly detected this wholesale 
plagiarism, I mentioned the subject in 
general terms; and then turning ta 
him, said, '^ But perhaps the wonder 
is not that authors should practise this 
mode of writing, but that / should 
wonder at it;" on which he looked 
impudently at me, and said he behe« 
ved so. I have met with some ridi<« 
culous instances of this practice. Being 
led by an advertisement in the news- 
papers to look at a saddle-horse, and 
perceiving some remarkable differences 
between the description and the ani« 
mal, I mentioned it to his owner, who 
coolly told me, that not being able ta 
write an advertisement himself, he had 
copied one from an old newspap^ 
wnich seemed something like. 

When the process of hatching chic* 
kens by st^am was exhibited at the 
Egyptian Hall, a little sixpenny pam« 
plet, descriptive of the progressive 
growth of the chick in the egg was 
sold at the door. It professed to be 
the composition of Mr — What's his 
Name ? — the inventor of the process ; 
but the truth is, that it was extracted 
verbatim from the English copy of 
'' The Exercitations on Generation^ 
by Wm. Harvey," the discoverer of 
the circulation. But the best of the 
joke was this—afler describing the ci- 
catricula, that is the little white spot 
near the blunt end of the yolk, where 
the first signs of life are seen, Harvey 
says, " and yet this first principle of 
the egg was never yet, to my know** 
ledge, observed by any man.* (Page 
82, A.D. 1653.) By an absurd blun* 
der of the person who extracted the 
descriptions, this passage is preserved, 

so that Mr , of the Egyptian HaU, 

claims the discovery of the use of the 
cicatricula. But although there may 
be some excuse for hack compilers and 
ignorant horse-jockeys, there is none 
for writers of first-rate genius. And 
yet even these will sometimes stoop to 
similar acts of literary dishonesty. 
Lord Karnes produced the beautifid pa- 
rable on persecution as an original conk* 
position of Franklin's. Franldin, du« 
ring his lifetime, permitted it to circu- 
late as suph, and it is still inserted as 
his own in his collected works ; yet it 
is stolen from the last page of Jeremy 



13(1 



Nugm LUerarics, No.L 



CAfti 



I 



W' 



! I 

I I 
' I I 



I , 



. -I 

!, I 



I 

ii ■ 



1 1 



Ii 



TAjte^ft '* Liberty of Fftyphesyiiiff." 
Anotiber unpardonable instance of pla- 
giarism in a man of learning and ge- 
nius^ was Porson!8 claiming '^ die De- 
vil's Walk." I have good reason to 
know^ that although Porson might not 
distinctly say that he was the author 
of it, yet he used to repeat it in such 
a way as to lead people to believe it 
WB8 nis own. Even Blackwood's Ma- 
gazine mentions it as the composition 
of Porson. Yet the fact is that it was 
the joint composition of Coleridge and 
SQUthey in some playful moments. As 
you have attributed it to Porson, it is 
but right that your pages should cor- 
rect the error; and I now send you 
what I believe to be a complete copy. 

From his brimstone bed, at break of day> 
A-walking the Devil is gone. 

To look at his snug little farm, the world, 
And see how his stock went on. 

How then was the Devil drest? 
He was in his Sunday's best ; 
His coat was red, and his breeches were 
blue^ 
And there was a hole where his tail 
came through. 

Over the hill, and over tlie dale, 
, And he went over the plain ; 
And backward and forward he switched 
his tail, 
As a gentleman switches his cane. 

He pass*d by a cottage with a double 
coach-house, 
A cottage of gentility ; 
And he grinn*d at the sight— for his &- 
vourite vice 
Is pride that apes humility. 

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, 
On the dunghill beside his stable ; 

And the Devil was shocked, for it put him 
in mind 
Of the story of Cain and Abel. 

An Apothecary, on a white horse. 

Rode by on his vocation ; 
And the Devil thought of his old friend. 

Death, in the Revelation. 

He went into London by Tottenham 
Court Road, 

Rather by chance than by whim. 
And there he saw Brothers the Prophet, 

And Brothers the Prophet saw him. 

He went into a rich Bookseller's shop ; 

QjQOth he« we are both of one college—- 
For I sat myself like a cormorant once 

Upon the Tree of Knowledge. 



Af ha paaa'd by Col4.BatlkFfail% ^ 

locA'd 
At a solitary ceU{ 
And he was pleased— for it give him a 

hint 
For improving the prisons of hell. 

He saw a Turnkey in a trice 

Fe£ter a troublesome blade ; 
How nimbly, quoth h^ the fingers iiiov% 

If a man is but used to his trade. 

He saw the same turnkey unfetter a maa^ 

With but little expedition ; 
And he laughed — for he thonght of tht 
long debate 

On the slave-trade abolition. 

He met with an old acquaintance 
Close by the Methodist meetings 

She bore a consecrated flag^ 
And she gave him a nod of greetfo^ 

She tippM him the wink, and then crM 
Avaunt ! my name's Religion ; 

And she leer'd on Mr Wilb^foioa^ 
Like a love-sick pigeon. 

As he stood near Somerset Htmai^lieiiir 

A pig down the river float; 
The pig swam well, but eveiy atiDkB 

Was cutting his own throat 

He view'd the sight with gloatfaiy ^yai 

Of joy and exultation ; 
For he thought of his own diBiighter» Wai^ 

And her darling child, Tsxatioii. « 

He met a Lord of the north eoantriii- 

The Lord of the Dale was his nasM $* 
Such was the twin-likeness betwaen tfaa 

pair. 
That it made old Beelzebub starCand ateoe { 
For he thought, to be sure^ 'twas a look- 
ing-glass there, 
But he could not see the finune. 

He saw a certain Minister, 

A Minister of his mind. 
Go into a certain house, 

With a majority behind. 

The Devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a learned clerk : 
How Noah and his creeping things ' ■ ^ 

Went into the Ark. 



When he saw General 



'■fiwe^ 



He fl«d with consternation ; 
For the Devil thought, by a maU 
take, 
'Twas the semertd conflagfittioik 



18fi60 The Country Curaie. Chap. IV. The Shipwreck. 



137 



THE COUNTRY CURATE. 



Chap. IV. 
The Shipwreck. 



During the months of February and 
March^ in the year 18 — , the coast 
of Kent was visited by a succession of 
violent storms^ which caused a great- 
er quantity of damage to the shipping 
and villages on the sea-shore than had 
been known to have occurred in the 
memory of man. On a certain day in 
the earner part of the latter months my 
duties led me to visit that quarter of 
my parish which lies on the other side 
of the last range of hills, and adjoins 
to the parish, or rather to the outskirts, 
of the town of Folkestone. The wind 
was out with a degree of fury, such as 
even I, who reside so near this tem- 
pestuous coast, have seldom witnessed. 
The clouds were not sailing, but rush- 
ing through the sky, in grey fleeces ; 
a huge black mass ever and anon came 
up upon the blast, driving away from 
east to west^ and sending forth a shower 
of hailstones, which beat in my face 
as I ascended the height, and compel- 
led me more than once to cling to a 
piece of gorze, or fern, for support. 
The Bheep were all cowering under the 
hill-top ror shelter, with their backs 
turned towards the storm, and hud- 
dled closely together ; and the shep- 
herds either took their places beside 
them, or ran home to tneir different 
houses, among the glens and hollows 
near. It was, indeed, a day in which 
no one who could find a roof to cover 
him would have chosen to be abroad ; 
60 boisterous was the gale, and so keen 
and cutting were the gusts of hail and 
fdeet which rode from time to time upon 
it. 

It is impossible for one whose habi- 
tation, though it be shut out from a 
view of the ocean, stands within the 
sound of its waves, when they are in 
wrath, not to think with peculiar an- 
xiety, during every gale or storm, of 
the poor mariners who are exposed to 
its violence. To-day, in particular, I 
felt myself full of apprehension ; for 
there was a considerable fleet of vessels 
at anchor in the Downs, and several 
large India^men had been seen at a late 
hour last night not far fVom the Point 
of Dungene 88. They had not passed, 

Voi.XIX. 



my man told me, during the n^t ; 
indeed, the night had been too dark, 
and too blustering, to encourage them 
to lift their anchors ; but the ^e had 
increased so much, towards sun-iise. 
and was still so heavy, that I coula 
hardly hope that the anchors had not 
drag^d, or, which might prove even 
morfe fatal, that the cables had not 
parted. 

As I neared the top of the hill, the 
noise of the mighty element increased 
upon me, till its roar would have al- 
most drowned the thunder itself^ lo 
loud and so increasing had it become. 
But if the sense of hearing had im^ 
pressed me with feelings of awe, thes6 
feelings were increased to an indescri- 
bable dc^ee by the spectacle which 
presented itself to the sense of sight* 
immediately below me was the ocean, 
boiling and foaming far and nest ; one 
huge ^dron of troubled waters, which 
tossed and tumbled, as if a thousand 
fires were burning beneath it. The 
coast of France, which, on other days, 
may be distinctly seen, even to tii6 
glancing of a sun-oeam on the windows 
of the nouses in Calais, was now en- 
tirdy hidden. I could not, indeed, 
send my gaze beyond mid-space be- 
tween tne two diores ; and from &at 
point onwards, wave followed waye, in 
feaiful succession, till, one after an- 
other, they burst in tremendous force 
upon Uie chalky cli£& and pebbly 
strand of Kent. The town of Folke- 
stone appeared devoted to utter destruc- 
tion. The tide was pouring through 
its lower streets, sweeping all live and 
dead substances before it ; the few fish- 
ing vessels which had been moored in 
the harbour were lying high and dry, 
far up the side of the hill, or floating 
in broken fragments upon the water ; 
whilst the inhabitants, who had with 
diflBculty escaped, were congregated in 
the upper parts of the town, to watch 
with grief and dismay the progress of 
a power to which human ingenuity 
could oppose no obstacle. All tnis was 
aw^l enough ; but my fears were too 
much alive for the brave men who 
were embarked in ships, to think ranch 

S 



The Country Curate. Chap. IF. Tki Shipwreck. 



1^6 

of the state of those who suffered only 
from a loss of property. 

I looked anxiously, first towards the 
Downs, and afterwards in the direc- 
tion of Dungeiiess. From the former 
point the fleet had entirely disappear- 
ed. Many I saw stranded upon the 
shore ; others had prohahly escaped to 
a more safe anchorage; and those 
which had endeavoured to heat out to 
sea, were just visihle on. the lower part 
of the Goodwins. The waves were 
dashing over their hroken hulls, and 
their very masts were hidden, as every 
breaker^ of a size somewhat larger than 
the rest, burst upon them. For them 
and for their crews there was no hope 
—all must perish — and all did perish 
before I quitted my station. In the 
direction of Dungeness, again, only 
one ship could be descried. She had 
sacceeded, apparently, in working out 
before the storm had reached its height; 
and now having secured sea-room, was 
endeavouring to scud, either for the 
Downs or the river. Her top-gallant- 
masts were all struck ; the only sail 
hoisted was the fore- ton-sail, and that 
dose-reefed ; under wnich she made 
way, rapidly indeed, but not without 
fisdling every moment faster and faster 
to leeward. It was, in truth, manifest, 
that if she persisted in going on, she 
must run ashore several miles on this 
side of Deal ; and of that her crew ap- 
peared to be as fullv convinced as those 
who watched her irom the land. 

She was now abreast of Folkestone, 
with a hurricane right on shore, and 
herself not above a mile and a half 
fipm the breakers. Having carried a 
teliescope in my hand, I saw by the 
hdp of it that Tier decks were crowd- 
ed with people^ some of whom held 
by the rigging and shrouds, others by 
the binnades and bulk-heads ; whilst 
some were lashed to the wheel, by 
which they vainly endeavoured to guide 
her. An attempt was now made to 
wear, but it failed. The ship reeled 
rounds and drove towards the shore 
with a velodty which caused me to 
shut my eyes, that I might escape at 
least the horror of beholding her strike. 
But she did not strike. Two anchors 
were let go at once from the bo\(^. By 
little short of a mirt^^le, they held ; 
and as if Heaven itself had desired to 
save her, the tempest suddenly lulled. 
The waves, however, ran as they had 
run before; " mountain high ;" con- 
sequently no boat could be launched 



c?* 



to her assistance ; and there Ae zodfOf 
straining and pitching her bowi and 
bulwarks under, at the mercy of a ocra^ 

Ele of cables, and a couple of crooked 
its of iron. 

Having stood for about half an hour 
to observe her, and fancying that, ai 
she had hitherto done weU, sne would 
continue so to do, especially as I thought 
that I could observe a clearing up to 
leeward, indicative of a diange of wind, 
I paid the visit which I set out to pav* 
and returned to my.house. Here toe 
rest of the nioming was spent in altoew 
nate hope and fear, as the face of the 
heavens seemed to indicate a total oea-- 
sation, or a renewal of the stonn ; but 
hope gradually gave way to alarm, and 
alarm grew into despair^ soon after 
darkness began. The sun went down 
fiery red, like a ball of burning coaL 
The wind, as if hushing him to deep, 
began again to renew its violence. It 
came, for a while, in alternate lulls 
and gusts; which, succeeding each 
other more rapidly every moment, end« 
ed at length in the same tremendoua 
hurricane which had prevailed during 
the day. I could not sit quietly in my 
chair. '' I must go," said I, ** to see 
how the Indiaman fares^ and I will 
pray upon the beach for ihe poor peo* 
pie whom I cannot jotherwise serre." 
So saying, I put on m^ great-coat, and, 
seizing my hat and sticK, sallied ibrditf 
The clock struck nine as I laid my 
hand on the latch ; and I rejoiced to 
find, on crossing Uie threshold, diat 
it was moon-light. I looked up into 
the sky, and beheld the fleeces receding 
in the direction which they had fol- 
lowed in the morning ; but not so thick 
as ^eatly to obscure ike moon's xayi ; 
which, on the contrary, shone out clear 
and bright occasionally, and at all timea 
exerted some influence. I rejoiced at 
this ; not only because I regarded it aa 
a good omen, but because 1 hoped that 
it might prove of essential service to 
the people on board ; whose fears, at 
least, would be more tolerable than if 
the night had been pitchy dark ; and 
under this impression, I pushed on 
with a quick pace. But my satisfaction 
was not of long continuance, — ^if, in-* 
deed, the feeling be worthy of that ti- 
tle, — which the mere glandng of tlie 
moon's rays had exdted. 

I had not yet reached the top of the 
hill, when the report of a gun, heard 
amidst the roar of the tempest, asanied 
me that the vessel had straek. It 






I9i6.'2 The Countrj'Curate. Chap. IF. The Shipwrwck. 



181 



uj^n me like the last despdriqg shriek 
m a drowning man^ who cries out he«> 
cause nature so urges hira^ though 
aware that no human aid is at hand. 
Nor were my prognostications erro- 
neous. When I attained the summit^ 
I heheld a multitude of lights glan- 
cing along the shore ; I heard voices 
and shouts^ and every other indication 
which sound could give, that all was 
over. I ran towards the spot, and be- 
held the ship, her masts gone and her 
hull broken, in the midst of the break- 
ers, at the distance of a full mile and 
B half from the land. Another gun was 
fired — it was the last. Planks, bulk- 
heads, and spars, began now to drive 
upon the shingle. A sort of rending 
noise came from the wreck, which in- 
stantly disappeared. She had split up 
into fragments ; and of the living crea- 
tures which had hitherto clung to her, 
the majority found a grave amid the 
surf. 

There are few spectacles more ap- 
palling, and at the same time more full 
of deep excitation, than that of a ship- 
wreck. Not only is your attention 
Brawn to the vessel and its crew, but 
the hurry and bustle on shore, the 
real sympathy displayed by men from 
whose outward appearance little sym- 
pathy could be augured — the cries, 
and exclamations, and movements of 
the crowd, — all tend to give to the thing 
a degree of additional interest, which, 
in sober earnest, it hardly requires. 
It is enough to see a number of our 
fellow-creatures hovering on the brink 
of eternity, without having our feel- 
ings additionally worked upon by die 
proceedings of those around us. 

A cry was now raised for boats. 
*' Where is the Dauntless ?" shouted 
one : " High and dry," exclaimed an- 
other. " Is the Nancy safe ?" " No, 
she is in pieces." And so it was, that 
not a boat or barge of all that usually 
lay at anchor in the harbour could be 
brought on the instant into play. But 
the Kentish fishermen are not restrain- 
ed from action by trifles. " Launch 
the Dauntless" — " Down with the Sis- 
ters"—" There lies the Pilot," were 
echoed from mouth to mouth ; and in 
half a second, an hundred hands were 
at work, hauling the boats named from 
the beach, where the ebb tide had left 
them, and rolling them along itie 
shingle. " Hurrah, hurrah," was now 
the only word uttered. Down they 
came over the loose stones, till they 



neared the reach of the waves, and 
then having watehed a receding \AU 
low, the gallant party which dragged 
them hurled them into the breaken; 
whilst half a dozen stout fellows 
sprung into each as it rose upon the 
foam. '' Grod speed ye, Goa speed 
ye — away, away," and away they 
went. But the next wave was fatal to 
two of them. Over they rolled, bot- 
tom upwards, and the crews were 
dashed upon the beach. The third, 
however, rode it out. She bore one 
lantern in her bow, and another in her 
stern ; and it was truly a nervous thing 
to watch these lights appearing and 
disappearing, as the brave boat rose 
and fell with the rise and fall of iiie 
waters. 

In the meanwhile, many eyes were 
eagerly turned towards the water- 
mark, with the expectation of diseo- 
verins" some human creature who 
might be washed ashore, on a plai^k or 
raft. All such, however, came te- 
nantless. Either the beings who had 
clung to them lost their hold, or not 
expecting the ship to part so suddenly 
as she did, they neglected the precat!* 
tion of making themselves fast to the 
spars. Our best hope, accordingly, cen- 
tred in our own boat, which we saw 
bravely making her way ; the tide be- 
ing in ner favour, though the wind was 
against her. At length she appeared 
to have gained her utmost limit. There 
she lingered, rising and fklling, her 
lights glancing and disappearing to our 
unspeakable terror, for a full quarter of 
an hour ; when having, as it would 
seem, done her utmost, she put about, 
and made towards land. Twen ty torches 
were held up to suide her. Her prepress 
was like that ofthe lightning, and tier 
crew having watched the opportunity, 
she mounted upon the top of a wave, 
and rushed, with all its white foam> 
far up the beach. Then our party 
running in, seized her by the bow, and 
so securing her against the ebbing, in 
three seconds she was safe; 

The search which her dauntless 
rowers had undertaken, proved all but 
fruitless. So complete was the ivreck, 
that they could not discern any single 
portion of the Indiaman more attrac- 
tive than the rest. Nothing could be 
observed, indeed, in the darkness of 
the night, except floating boards, all 
of them without occupants ; and henoe 
their sole success was in saving die 
life of one man, whom they found 



lip 



Tlkt'Couniry Curate. Chap. IF. The Skipwreds. 



Cf* 



ciinsinK to a hcn-ooop^ and a good 
deiu exhausted. I must do the men 
c^ Kent the justice to obserre, that the 
shipwrecked individual had no r^ht 
to complain of want of hospitahty. 
Each of the spectators appeared more 
anxious than the rest to iSbrd him ac- 
oonimodation ; and it was only because 
I pressed his removal to the vicarage^ 
that they yielded the point to me. A 
post-chaise was accordingly prepared^ 
into which we lifted him ; and as the 
distance by the road exceeds not one 
mile^ he was undressed, and laid in 
our bestbed^ within half an hour from 
his landing. Some mulled wine and 
other cordials beins administered to 
hhn^ he was left to nis repose ; and it 
was not till a late hour on the follow- 
Mig day^ that the ringing of his bell 
gave testimony that he had awoke 
from the sleep into which our narco- 
tics had lulled him. 

When he joined our family circle 
next roomings we were all much struck 
with the appearance and demeanour 
of the stranger. He was very tall^ con- 
siderably upwards of six feet — ^his 
figure was commanding and noble — 
his features were fine, but there was an 
expression of wildness in his dark eye, 
which could not pass unobserved. His 
age I shoidd guess to have been about 
fifty ; perhaps it was under that, for 
Uack hair soon grows grey ; and the 
lines, which were strongly marked in 
his forehead, seemed to be the traces 
rather of violent passions than of time. 
With respect to his manner, it is not 
very easy to describe it. No one could 
mistake that he was a gentleman ; but 
there was a restlessness and incohe- 
rence in his conversation, which pro- 
duced the reverse of an agreeable sen- 
sation upon those around nim. It was 
curious enough that he never once al- 
luded, of his own accord, to the events 
of yesterday. We, of course, referred 
to them, and were beginning to con- 
gratulate him upon his escape, but he 
abruptly changed the subject, by ask- 
ing some trifling questions respecting 
the surrounding country. Had any 
person entered the parlour ignorant of 
the mode of his arrival amongst us, he 
would have imagined that the stranger 
had landed the day before, in perfect 
safety, and in an ordinary way, from 
a voyage. The effect of all this upon 
the ladies was to create in them feel- 
ings of absolute horror, and they soon 
began to view him with dismay : for 



mjTself I was astonishedj and moi9 / 
than half-suspected that the poor gen- 
tleman was not altogether in his sound 
senses. 

The stranger continued an inmate 
of m^ house for three whole days, and 
nothing passed between us all tliis 
while beyond the common interoourse 
of social life. I did not deem it con- 
sistent with propriety to demand his 
name, or to make any inquiry into his 
condition ; and he, as it appeared, &lt 
no inclination voluntarily to oflbr the 
information. Only once he observed, 
casually, that he was afraid he must in- 
trude upon my hospitality till he should 
receive remittances which might* en- 
able him to travel, for that there was 
no money in his pockets when the ship 
foundered, and tnat all his effects had 
perished. Beyond this, however, he 
communicated to me nothing, and of 
his company I enjoyed no more than 
was absolutely inmspensable during^ 
meals. 

Whilst his sojourn lasted, our mode 
of living was accordingly this : The 
stranger rose early and walked ont; 
he returned to breakfast, which he 
hastily swallowed, and then went forth 
again; and immediately on the ochl- 
clusion of dinner, he retired to his 
apartment, where the remainder of the 
evening was spent in writing. This I 
learned from my servant wno canied 
up lights when he rang for them ; and 
because he had requested me to snjmly 
him with pens, ink, and papar ; bat 
whether thc^ were letters, or what the 
subject of his writings mi^t be, I of 
course had no means of ascertaining. 
On the evening of the third dav, how- 
ever, a slight change occurM in his 
manner. He sat with me after the 
dinner had been removed, and made 
an e£fbrt to be sociable, but he drank 
no wine ; and ever and anon, after sup- 
porting a common-place conversation 
for several minutes, he relapsed into 
silence. The ladies soon len us, and 
then it was that I determined to sound 
him as delicately as I could, on thie. 
state of his mind. 

The fire was blazing brightly, fd^: 
the evening was frosty and calm ; we 
had drawn our chairs round it, and I 
again urged him to take wine. ^' I 
have not tasted wine," said he, *' these 
twenty years, and I may not taste it 
while 1 live." — '^ Perhaps it d isag re es 
with you ; you may be of a consump- 
tive or inflammatory habit?" '^I Jebw 



Tht Country Curait. Chap, IV. 



18980 

not what yoa mean by inflammatory/' 
said he : '^ there are inflammations of 
the body, and inflammations of the 
mind ; mine is, I believe, of the latter 
description. Is it not strange/' conti- 
nued he abruptly^ '^ that the only in- 
dividual saved out of a whole ship's 
company, should be one who desired 
it not? Heavens! if you had heard 
the lamentations of the poor wretches 
in that vessel when she struck, if you 
had seen their wild and despairing 
looks — strange, strange, that they 
should perish, and I survive. Are you 
a fatalist?" , 

I must confess, that this commence- 
ment of familiarity between us by no 
means delighted me. I looked at my 
guest again, and saw with horror a 
sort of smUe or grin upon his counte- 
nance, indicative of a feeling such as 
I could not commend. " I am not a 
fatalist," answered I ; " nor am I able 
to conceive how any rational being can 
adoDt a creed so absurd. He who re- 
gards himself as the mere tool of in- 
vincible destiny, must hold his opinion 
in direct^ opposition to the surest of 
all testimony — that of consciousness." 
" Yet some of the wisest men the 
world has ever produced, were fatal- 
ists," r^oined he. '* Among the cele- 
brated writers of antiquity, almost all 
were fatalists. Homer and Ilesiodwerc 
both fatalists. Socrates and Plato were 
of the same way of thinking ; so were 
Zeno, Cbrysippus, Epicurus, and all 
the Stoics. So was Herodotus, so was 
Lucretius. Seneca has declared, that 
the same chain of necessity constrains 
both gods and men ; and even Cicero 
shows, in more passages than one, a 
leaning favourable to a similar view 
of the subject. In India, fatalism 
has ever prevailed. Those wise men, 
for an acquaintance with whose phi- 
losophy the sages of Greece scrupled 
not to undertake long and dangerous 
journeys, were all believers in irresist- 
ible destiny; and t]ie principles which 
they held, their descendants hold at 
this present day. Mahommed was a 
fatalist, and though he played upon 
the credulity of mankind, who will 
deny him the praise of transplendent 
talents ? And to come nearer home, 
has not our own country produced a 
host of fatalists among her distinguish- 
ed sons? What was Ilobbcs, Lord 
Kamcs, Hume, Priestly, ay, and great- 
.cr than all these, what was Locke ? A 
inan may weU be pardoned who adopts 






« 141 

opinions wh i i be supported by 
Budi names iw tkicse." 

Though not Tery anxious to enter 
into a metaphysical discussion^ and 
though, indeed, I had hoped to draw 
my guest into a conversation on his own 
situation and circumstances, rather 
than to follow him through the laby- 
rinth into which I saw we were about 
to plunge, I considered it due to my 
character and station to notice this re- 
mark: — " With respect to the classical 
writers you have named," replied I, 
" it is very true that the greater num- 
ber are generally considered to have 
held the sentiments you attribute to 
them ; my own persuasion, however, is, 
that the opinion is ill-founded. Whe- 
ther Socrates was a fatalist or not, we 
are scarcely competent to judge, inas- 
much as none of nis own writings have 
come down to us ; but I see no de- 
cided proof of the matter in the ac- 
count given of his philosophy by his 
pupils. It was surely not consistent 
with fatalism to look forward, as he 
undeuiablv did, to a state of rewards 
and punishments beyond the prettent 
life. Fatalism, properly so called, is 
directly contrary to a theory, which 
necessarily depends upon moral re- 
sponsibility ; for moral responsibility 
cannot exist without perfect freedom 
of will. Of all the philosophers, there- 
fore, whom you have enumerated^ per- 
haps Lucretius is, in point of fiict, the 
only real fatalist Seneca speaks in- 
deed, in the sentence referred to, too 
strongly ; but he more than once con- 
tradicts himself, whilst his reflections 
on the approach of death clearly im- 
ply, that, in the proper sense of the 
line, he was no fatalist. The fatal- 
ism of Aristotle and Plato, again, ex- 
tended only to such matters as we 
should call accidental occurrences; in- 
deed, it njay be held as a general truth, 
that not one among them dl, Lu- 
cretius only except^, no, not even 
the Stoics themselves, carried their no- 
tions on this head into the region of 
morals. As a proof of this, you have 
only to attend to the leading principle 
of their doctrines. The true Stoics 
held, that the mind should not depend 
upon the body at all ; that perfection 
was to be attained only by the abso- 
lute subjection of the passions to the 
understanding. Now, sucli an opi- 
nion cannot surely subsist, with a per- 
suasion, that man is a mere machine, 
continually guided by the most press- 



The Country Curate. Chap. If. 7%i Sk^twndc* 



14ft 

ing motives. For this, I appreh^ntl^ 
is all that can be meant by moral fa- 
taliflm. That you should have enu- 
merated Cicero among the defenders 
of ^Eitalism^ particularly surprises me. 
True, he sometimes employs the com- 
mon language of the day, exactly as I 
might remark, that the falling of my 
Horse, or the dislocation of my arm, 
occurred by chance, though quite 
aware that chance is a nonentity. But 
when he seriously treats of fate, and 
its influence, he attributes to it no 
more power than we should attribute 
to providence. Lucretius was indeed 
a fatalist, and to teach fatalism in its 
true sense, is one object of his wri- 
tings ; but even he contradicts him- 
self more than once, as all men must 
who support opinions in the face of 
their own consciousness. 

'* With respect to the sentiments of 
the Brahmins and of Mohammed, I 
scarcely think that they were worth 
quoting ; whilst the contradictions and 
absurdities into which our own writers 
fall, have been pointed out too frequent- 
ly to render it necessary that I should 
point them out again. Of Locke's fa- 
talism, however, I would observe, that 
it amounts to nothing more, than a 
firm persuasion of the necessity which 
exists, that there should be some invi- 
sible power, not corporeal, to guide by 
fixed laws the corporeal world. Be- 
yond this, I can discover no evidence 
of his having gone. I esteem it an un- 
fair thing to him, that his name should 
be ];teld out as giving authority to sen- 
timents so outrageous. But perhaps 
I am doing you injustice all this while. 
Your fatalism, probably, goes no far- 
ther than my chance ; and if so, I free- 
.ly allow, that, in our progress through 
life, many events happen for which we 
find, it no easy matter to account." 

The stranger was silent for some mo- 
ments, and so was I ; for I was not 
desirous of continuing the controversy, 
and yet wished not to appear afraid 
of it. • 

*^ It may be so," he at length said, 
and his countenance assumed at the 
same time a cast olT deep melancholy, 
'^ I may be mistaken. There may be 
no power superior to us — we may be 
our own puppets, and not the pup- 
pets of fate ; but I would give worlds 
to think otherwise. Do you see this 
mark?" continued he, at the same time 
untying his cravat, and exhibiting a 
broad scar round his throat, as if an 



{[Vek 



iron collar had cut inta the ildn ftr 
many years, '' how came that there?'' 

" How can I tell ?" replied I. « Per- 
haps you were bom with it, or—" 

'^ Perhaps it was forced upon me," 
interruptea he, and then laughed hys- 
terically. 

I was now quite convinced^ that the 
unfortunate man's reason was unaet- 
tled, and began to wish him fairly on 
his way to some other abode. But he 
recovered his composure again instant* 
ly, and, starting a new subject of con-* 
versation, became as rational and col- 
lected as possible. I now learned from 
him, for the first time, that he had 
taken his passage at Calcutta, having 
spent several years in India, and was 
returning to enjby the fruits of his 
services at home. When he used the 
word " enjoy," indeed, I saw the same 
Satanic curl of the lip which had 
shocked me before ; but it soon passed 
away, and during the rest of the even- 
ing he was more collected and ra- 
tional than we had seen him. He re- 
mained with us till our usual hour of 
parting; and then, having coldly wish- 
ed good night to the ladies, ana wait- 
ed till they retired, he addressed him- 
self to me in the following terms : 

" I have to thank you, sir, for mnch 
kindness and hospitality, — kindness 
bestowed upon one whom you did not 
know, and who is far from being woru 
thy of it. I likewise owe to your peo- 
ple my life. It is a poor boon ; bet it 
must not go unrequited. Do me the 
favour to distribute the contents of 
tins purse amongst them. To yoursdf 
I can offer no remuneration ; bat as I 
see that you feel an interest in me, 
and that my manner has excited yonr 
curiosity, I have determined to gratify 
it. To enter into the detail of my own 
history in ordinary conversation is a 
task too hard for me; — I have not 
even noted it down upon paper with- 
out much suffering. But it is record- 
ed, and the sad record I now commit 
to you. This night I take my depax^ 
ture. My real name you will, of 
course, excuse me for concealing, as 
well as the names of other actors in 
the eventful drama; but the facts 
stand as they occurred. Why I ha^e 
thus n>ade you my confidant I cannot 
tell. I have never acted so with any 
one besides ; and the fact that I am 
now intrusting a mere stranger with 
a secret such as mine, confirms me in 
my belief, that we are none of us our 



18260 



The Country Curate. CJiap, IV» The Shipwreck* 



own masters. — ^Farewell; I hear the 
carriage at the door." 

The stranger here put into my hands 
the produce of his nocturnal labours^ 
in the shape of a packet of papers 
closely written ; and before I had time 
to remonstrate with him on the abrupt- 
ness of his departure, or to press his 
stay, he had ouitted the house ; — the 
noise of wheels was soon heard, and 
the stranger was gone. I never saw 
or heard of him afterwards. 

As soon as I had so far recovered 
my astonishment as to be fully con- 
vinced that the stranger was gone, I 
sat down to peruse the manuscript 
which he had committed, under cir- 



cumstances so peculiar^ to my care« It 
was written in a d&a, strong, legible 
hand. Here and there traces of haste 
might be discovered in it^ as if dis 
writer had hurried over a passage or 
two under the influence ai excited 
feelings ; but, in general, the person 
who inspected it would have said, that 
it had been compiled with perfect com- 
posure — even deliberation. Yet the 
opening was certainly not such as a 
man in his calm and rational senses 
would have given. The idea offatal^ 
ism seemed to have taken a strong hold 
upon the individual's mind, and his 
story accordingly began with the foU 
lowing expressions. 



Chap. V. The Fatalist. 



^^ I AM a fatalist. I am perfectly 
satisfied, and from the first dawn of 
reason I have been satisfied, that the 
things which men call chance and free 
vnll, exist only in their own bewil- 
dered imaginations. It is very flat- 
tering to human pride to suppose, that 
each man guides himself in aU the 
changes and occurrences of life ; that 
his own will, or his own reason, or 
something worthy to be called his 
own, directs his actions, and regulates 
his thoughts. A slight degree of at- 
tention to passing events must, how- 
ever, convince all who reflect, that the 
human will, even if it be the spring of 
human actions, is itself no more than 
part of a complicated machine, which 
IS acted upon, and set in motion by a 
power which it cannot control. Were 
it not so, why should instances occur, 
I say not frequently, but so constant- 
ly, of persons ruining their own peace 
wantonly, with their own eyes open, 
and with no other discernible purpose 
in reason ? Why should the miser 
hoard hia gold, and starve? ^Why 
should the spendthrift waste his sub- 
stance, knowing all the while that he 
must bring himself to poverty f Why 
should the thousand extravagances oc- 
cur, which society daily places before 
us, were not all men, without excep- 
tion, mere machines ? Nay, nay, read 
the following narrative, and then de- 
termine whether it be possible to con- 
ceive that the freedom of will, which 
all are so anxious to claim, could have 
ever had existence, at least in me. 

*' I am the representative of a fa- 
mily, which, from the period of the 



Norman Conquest, has held consider-* 
able estates in the county of Rutland^ 
and which, by a steady adherence to 
the custom of entail, has managed to 
preserve its estates almost in their 
pristine extent. My mother dying 
whilst I was an infant, and my fa<t 
ther before I reached my tenth year, I 
was left to the care, or rather to the 
neglect, of ^certain titled personages, 
who cidled themselves my guardians, 
because they were so called in my fa- 
ther's will; but who conceived that^ 
they did enough when they entered 
me at one of our public schools, and 
permitted me to spend my vacations 
wherever and however my own fancy 
might suggest. Thus were my habits, 
temper, disposition, and pursuits, al- 
lowed to form themselves as chance 
directed, without any human being 
giving himself the trouble to advise . 
me to what was good, or to warn md 
against what might be evil. 

^'Nature had,however, settled these 
points so effectually, that I do not be- 
lieve any care on the part of others 
would have made me very different 
from what^ am. My earliest recol- 
lections represent me as a selfish, vio- 
lent, capricious, revengeful being ; as 
one who desired a thousand things 
which he had not, and who no sooner 
obtained them than he ceased to value 
them. It strikes me, indeed, that in 
my younger days I was never wan- 
tonly or gratuitously tvrannical. I 
cannot remember, that whilst at school 
I oppressed the little boys. I never 
crouched to the big ones, for I was 
not mean. But an injury I never for- 



146 



The Counirt/ Curate. 



funiing to me. * She is none of your 
delicate hot-house plants. Dear crea- 
ture ! what a misery it is for her to he 
cooped up in town, when all her wishes 
point to a country life. You are fond 
of field sports, I think, Mr St Clair ?' 
Thus was I waylaid at every turn. 
Did I express my approbation of this 
or that habit, it was exactly the thing 
of which Lady Fanny, or Lady Loui- 
sa, approved. Did I abhor this or the 
other mode of proceeding, the young 
ladies abhorred it also. But all would 
not do. I looked at these minions of 
fashion, as an ordinary spectator looks 
at the birds or butterflies in a museum 
— I never felt that they could have had 
one spark of life in them. 

** Of this silly mode of living, I soon 
began to grow tired. My thoughts 
were eternally wandering into Rut- 
landshire — to the little drawing-room 
in the Rectory — and to Lucy, as she 
has often sat at her instrument, and 
sung to me like a seraph. A thousand 
times did I resolve not to suffer pride 
to stand in the way of my happiness, 
but to hurry back, confess my errors 
to her father, and make a tender of my 
hand and fortune. But then the idea 
of being triumphed over by a poor 
country clergyman — of sitting and 
l^hining before one so far beneath me 
in rank and station — ^this was gall and 
wormwood to me — ^I could not brook 
it. * No,' said I, ' I will never marry 
—at least I wiU never marry, except 
to advance me in circumstances, or to 
add to my dignity.' < 

'^ Excitement became now the sole 
object of my search. Drinking was 
then in fashion, but I hiyd no taste for 
it. Intrigues, operas, masquerades, 
all palled upon me. I ran the round 
of them till they ceased 'to affect me, 
and I was disgusted. Play was my 
next resource. The dice-box was sel- 
dom out of my hand ; and to the ho- 
nour of hazard be it spoken, for almost 
an entire season it continued to en- 
gross my attention. Like other ama- 
teur gamblers, I was, it is true, more 
frequently the loser than the winner ; 
but that circumstance made no im- 
pression upon me. I played on till my 
ready money became exhausted — I 
raised several large sums on life an- 
nuities ; and I found myself, towards 
the close of three months, called, in 
fashionable parlance, * the winter ' — 
a poorer man by full two thousand 



Chap. r. The Fatalist. . [^Fiib. 

pounds per annum, than I bid l)ee|i 
on my first arrival in London. 

" About this time, when even ibe 
gaming-table was beginning to lose itt 
influence over me, it chanced that, to 
kill an hour one morning, I stroined 
into the British Gallery. I was ga&ng^ 
or pretending to gaze, at one of the 
Cartoons which hung at Hbe extremitj 
of apartment No. 2, when my aare ao- 
tually tingled, and my pulse eeasied to 
beat, at the sound of a sweet Tciee, to' 
which, for some time back, I had Hi* 
tened only in my dreams. ^ How 
beautiful,' said the speaker. These 
were the only words uttered, bat ibe 
tone of utterance was not to be mia« 
taken. I turned round, and-behdd 
Lucy, leaning upon the arm of her fin 
ther. Our eyes met. A deadly pale- 
ness came over her countenanee, and 
fearing that she was about to ftU, I 
sprang towards her, and caught her in 
my arms. A scene, of coorse, fblloir-> 
ed. The Dowager Lady Twaddle, 
happening to stand in the way, reod- 
ved a push which drove her heck upon 
Lord Fiddlestick, wha trod upon ihi 
gouty toe of Sir John CdUpash, who 
roared aloud with a^ny. The ooin« 
pany were all in motion in an instant 
crowding about us, like moths aboat 
a candle ; and Lucy, who mi|;ht per« 
haps have recovered the agitation pro« 
duced by this unexpected meetiv^ 
overcome with shame and tenor, ftintH 
ed. This was not a time to regnd' 
trifles, and Dr Travers himself made 
jio opposition whilst I bore herihroodi 
the throng, towards the stairs.' My 
carriage was at the door; in it I plaeed 
her, and her father taking a seat on one 
side, whilst I sat on the other, I ie« 
quested to know whither the ooacbmaii 
snould drive. ^ To Brunswick Sqvioe/ 
' replied he. Our destination waa aOan 
reached, and Lucy had regained hat 
senses before the carriage stopped* 

'^ It was now, for the first time, that 
the remembrance of my last interview 
with the Doctor, and tne pecuJiar eir« 
cumstances under which we parted^ 
occurred to me. As long aa Lucy lay 
motionless upon his bosom, i conia 
think of nothing but her, and the 
thoughts of her good &ther were ma* 
nifestly occupied by the some oli(}eet. 
We never exchanged a syllable doifiig 
the drive, except when he repttad to 
my question as to the part of the Mhi. 
where they lodged. Now^ hdwttllbl^ 






'^ I Bay^ that the rector of my pa« consdotts of my own weakness^ thongh 



rish, vhom, for the sake of perspicui- 
iy, I shall call Travers^ had a daugh- 
ter. Oh such a daughter ! When I 
came to reside at Claremont^ she had 
barely completed her seventeenth year. 
Sir^ you never beheld the picture of an 
angel so beautiful, you never will be- 
hold a real angel (if there be such 
things)^ worthy to stand a comparison 
with her^ and her mind^ and hearty and 
disposition ; there exists not her fel- 
low throughout the universe. I loved 
her madly ; but my love for her, like 
my love mr everything else, was pure- 



I despised myself for it ; so I desir^- 
my valet one morning to put up my 
wearing apparel, and throwing myself 
into my travelling-chariot, set out for 
London. 

" Having now embarked, or rather 
having resolved to embark, in the busi^ 
ness of a fashionable Ufe, I was not so 
far guided by the caprice of the mo- 
ment, as to be unaware, that if I de- 
sired to act a creditable part in it, (that 
is to say, if I desired to amuse myself,) 
it was indispensably requisite for me to 
lay some restraint upon my natural ir- 



ly selfish. Judging of her from the ritability and caprice. I made the re« 



specimens of her sex which had here- 
tofore crossed me, I dreamed that it 
would be no difficult matter to obtain 
her on my own terms ; so I laboured 
assiduously, but with extreme caution, 
to accomplish her ruin. The young 
creature was absolutely too pure to 
understand me. I gained her affec- 
tions, — ^how, I am sure that I cannot 
tell, — but upon her morals and innate 
chastity I made no inroad ; of course, 
I was too well.yersed in these matters 
to make my advances very openly, and 
she was far too delicate in her ideas to 
detect anything amiss in my proceed- 
ings. 

. *^ Not so her father. The rector, 
though a scholar, was a man of the 
world, and readily saw into the mo- 
tives which led me to pay attention to 
his daughter. He challenged me with 
my widcedness; and I own it with 



solution, and adhered to it. Many a 
pang it cost me, to smile, when I felt 
disposed to frown, and to hold out my 
fore-finger to men on whom I desired 
to turn my back, if I did them no more 
serious injury ; yet I so far obtained a 
mastery over myself, as to be admit- 
ted into all the coteries, as well as 
into the best of the clubs, usually fre- 
quented by people of rank. My for- 
tune, indeed, was known to be ample* 
My rent-roll stood in reality at four 
thousand a-year — the world set it 
down at ten ; and what are the freaks 
and fancies which will not foe tolerated 
and excused in a young mah supposed 
to be worth ten thousand a-year r All 
the unmarried women were a-flutter 
when I came among them, whilst thdr 
mammas took good care that I should 
be fully informed of their many com- 
mendable qualities, and of their amia- 



shame, I quailed beneath his indig-, ble dispositions. ' My daughter Fan-^ 
nant frown. From that hour I hated, ny,' said the Countess of ■ , ' is all 
though I respected him ; but our ac- 
quaintance ceased for a time, and I 
had no means afforded of gratifying 



my malice. 

" To marriage I always had an insu- 
perable objection ; and to marry the 
daughter of a country parson would, 
I conceived, disgrace me for ever. 
Yet to continue near Lucy — to see her, 
as I contrived to see her, every day — to 
hear the silver tones of her voice, her 
warm protestations of continued love, 
notwithstanding the prohibition of her 
parent — to do all this, baffled, as I 
constantly was, in my base purposes 
of seduction, without so far commit- 
ting myself as to propose a union, I felt 
to be impossible. The struggle was a 
desperate one, but I resolved to leave 
the country. I dared not trust myself 
witii a parting interview; for I was 

Vol. XIX. 



excellence. She is really too good- 
hearted, and |ao much the slave of de- 
licate feelings. It was only yesterday 
that she was prevailed upon to suIk* 
scribe one guinea a-year to the Church 
Missionary Society; and look here,' 
drawing my attention to a number o£ 
shell pin-cushions, and other gew- 
gaws — ^ all these she made with her 
own hands ; they are to be sold for the 
benefit of the children of Sunday 
school. Perhaps you will become a 
purchaser.' — * Only think, mamma,' 
said Lady Louisa Gallop, ' the horse 
that Charles bought for me, took me 
clear over the bar at the highest notch 
this morning, in the riding-school.'-— 
* You will never have done, child,' re- 
plied mamma, ^ till you meet with some 
serious accident. What strength of 
nenre she has V continued the dowager, 

T 



146 



The CoufUrf/ Curate, 



fuming to me. ' She is none of your 
delicate hot-house plants. Dear crea- 
ture ! what a misery it is for her to be 
cooped up in town, when all her wishes 
point to a country life. You are fond 
of field sports, I think, Mr St Clair ?' 
Thus was I waylaid at every turn. 
Did I express my approbation of this 
or that habit, it was exactly the thing 
of which Lady Fanny, or Lady Loui- 
sa, approved. Did I abhor this or the 
other mode of proceeding, the young 
ladies abhorred it also. But all would 
not do. I looked at these minions of 
fashion, as an ordinary spectator looks 
at the birds or butterflies in a museum 
— I never felt tbat they could have had 
one spark of life in them. 

" Of this silly mode of living, I soon 
began to grow tired. My thoughts 
were eternally wandering into Rut- 
landshire — to the little drawing-room 
in the Rectory — and to Lucy, as she 
has often sat at her instrument, and 
sung to me like a seraph. A thousand 
times did I resolve not to suffer pride 
to stand in the way of my happiness, 
but to hurry back, confess my errors 
to her father^ and make a tender of my 
hand and fortune. But then the idea 
of being triumphed over by a poor 
country clergyman — of sitting and 
l^hining before one so far beneath me 
in rank and station — ^this was gall and 
wormwood to me — ^I could not brook 
it. * No,* said I, ^ I will never marry 
—at least I will never marry, except 
to advance me in circumstances, or to 
add to my dignity.' i 

'' Excitement became now the sole 
object of my search. Drinking was 
then in fashion, but I h%d no taste for 
it. Intrigues, operas, masquerades, 
all palled upon me. I ran the round 
of them till they ceased 'to affect me, 
and I was disgusted. Play was my 
next resource. The dice-box was sel- 
dom out of my hand ; and to the ho- 
nour of hazard be it spoken, for almost 
an entire season it continued to en- 
gross my attention. Like other ama- 
teur gamblers, I was, it is true, more 
frequently the loser than the winner ; 
but that circumstance made no im- 
pression upon me. I played on till my 
ready money became exhausted — I 
raised several large sums On life an- 
nuities ; and I found myself, towards 
the close of three months, called, in 
fashionable parlance, ' the winter ' — 
a poorer man by full two thousand 



Chap. F. The Fatalist. . [;Fi 

pounds per annum^ thin I liAd Im 
on my first arrival in London. 

" About this time, when even ti 
gaming-table was beginning to lose j 
influence over me, it chanced ih&t, 
kill an hour one morning, I strofii 
into the British Gallery. I was gasin 
or pretending to gaze, at one oft] 
Cartoons which hung at the extEend 
of apartment No. 2, when my ears a 
tually tingled, and my ^tilse ceased 
beat, at the sound of a sweet Toice^ 
which, for some time back, I had li 
tened only in my dreams. ^ He 
beautiful,' said the speaker. The 
were the only words uttered, bat il 
tone of utterance was not to be mi 
taken. I turned round, and-bdie 
Lucy, leaning upon the arm of her I 
ther. Our eyes met. A deadly pal 
ness came over her countenanee, ai 
fearing that she was about to ftU, 
sprang towards her, and caog^it her 
my arms. A scene, of comne, fc^o^ 
ed. The Dowager Lady Twaddl 
happening to stand in the way, reci 
ved a push which drove her back up 
Lord Fiddlestick, wha trod upon t 
gouty toe of Sir John Callipaah, wl 
roared aloud with a^ny. TThe col 
pany were all in motion in an instai 
crowding about us, like motfaa abfl 
a candle ; and Lucy, who mi^ht p( 
haps have recovered the agitation m 
duced by this unexpected meetii 
overcome with shame and temnr, fidi 
ed. This was not a time to regs 
trifles, and Dr Travers himadf ma 
jio opposition whilst I bore her thnni 
the throng, towards the stain. I 
carriage was at the door; in it l-plai 
her, and her father taking a seat on c 
side, whilst I sat on the other> I ] 
quested to know whither the coachni 
snould drive. ' To Brunswick Sqw 
' replied he. Our destination wia ad 
reached, and Lucy had r^ained 1 
senses before the carriage stopped. 

" It was now, for the first time, H 
the remembrance of my laat interri 
with the Doctor, and tne peculiar c 
cumstances under which we perti 
occurred to me. As long aa Li&ey I 
motionless' upon his boaom^ I ooi 
think of nothing but her, and 1 
thoughts of her ^od &ther wcfe a 
nifestly occupied by the tame akj^ 
We never exchanged a syllaUe dmi 
the drive, except when he venltod 
my question as to the part of toe td 
wnere they lodged. Now, hbinMs 



1820.;] 



The CoufUr^ Curate. Chap. V. the Faialisf. 



felt embarrassed and confused^ as I had 
done when he formerly itpbraided me 
with my intended villamy^ and forbade 
me his house ; whilst he too appeared 
to have recovered his seLf-command 
sufficiently to recall images unpleasant 
to himself^ and unfavourable to me. I 
offered to accompany them up stairs 
into their lodgings. This the doctor 
prohibited. ' No, Mr St Clair/ said 
he ; ^ though Fthank you for the at- 
tention just received, I cannot forget 
former occurrences. Learn to respect 
the feelings of others, as well as your 
own. Become a good member of so- 
ciety, as I fear you liave hitherto been 
a bad one, and then welcome. But 
till then, farewell !' I slunk back into 
the carriage, and drove home in a state 
of mind utterly incapable of descrip- 
tion. 

" The sight of Lucy, particularly 
under existing circumstances, at once 
renewed the passion which I had stri- 
ven, during many months, to smoUier. 
Like other fires, which have for a time 
been covered over, it burst forth again 
with increasing violence, and all fur- 
ther attempts to oppose it I felt to be use- 
less. The contest between inclination 
and pride was at an end. To live with- 
out Lucy was impossible — to obtain 
her, it would at least be necessary to 
seek her upon honourable terms. I 
resolved to do so. Nay, I went farther 
than this^I doubted whether I had 
not l;>een hitherto acting upon a wrong 
principle, and whether it would not 
conduce more to my own comfort, were 
I in some degree to study the comfort 
and wishes of my neighbours. I had 
tried every other road to happiness 
without success — I determined now to 
make the experiment, whether I might 
not be made happy myself, by dispen- 
sing happiness to otners. With this 
view — a good feeling at work within 
me-^I sat down to address the doctor. 
I acknowledged my past misconduct—. 
I entreated him to forgive and forget it 
—I assured him of my unalterable at- 
tachment to his daughter, and my de- 
termination to make myself, if possi- 
ble, worthy of her — I even went so far 
in the paroxysm of virtuous enthu- 
siasm, as to beg that he would become 
my guide amd director in all my con- 
cerns, promising to act in every mat- 
ter in obedience to his wishes. Having 
sealed this letter, I dispatched it with 
my servant, and waited the result in 
all the misery which an impatient man 



147 

endures, whilst anything materially 
afiecting his future wel&re hang^ in 
doubt. 

*' My man returned in a couple o£ 
hours with a note from Dr Travers* 
It was short, dignified, but not un* 
kind. It expressed the satis&ction of 
the writer at the promises made by m^^ 
but it gave no immediate sanction to 
my suit. '^ To conceal from you, that 
Lucy's affections are gained, would/' 
continued the billet, '* be impossible; 
but this I am proud to say of my 
daughter, that she will neva: give her 
hand to any man of whom her father 
docs not approve. In your case I am 
willing to believe as much as in the 
case of other men ; but till I see some 
evidence that you can act as well as 
protest, I must still require you to ab- 
stain from visiting or holding any in- 
tercourse with my child.' I cursed 
the old man's suspicious temper, and. 
tore his letter into fragments ; how I 
refrained from rushing forth again 
into my former vicious habits is more 
than I can tell. 

'^ It has been my invariable prac- 
tice through life, to act upon the spur 
of the moment, according as whim, or 
rather destiny, directed* I had en* 
gaged myself to dine with a party of 
gambling friends this day, and had 
resolved when I rose in the morning 
to return from the meeting either a 
ruined or a recovered man. Now I 
had neither spirit nor inclination to 
fulfil that engagement. On the con« 
trary, I ordered the travelling chariot 
to be got ready, and in an hour after 
the receipt of the doctor's communica* 
tion, was on my way into the country. 
My reasoning was tnus : — 

'^ The doctor and Lucy will, without 
doubt, return home as soon as she is 
able to travel. I am still forbidden to 
call upon them ; and yet I know that 
if I remain in town I shall not be able 
to attend to the prohibition. But a 
breach of it may lead to the worst con- 
sequences, and therefore it is better, 
even viewing the matter thus, to fly 
from temptation. Again, should the 
doctor be informed of my sudden de- 
parture, it will doubtless act favour- 
ably for me. He will believe that my 
protestations were sincere, and that I 
really have abandoned for ever the 
haunts of vice, with the view of car- 
rying my good resolutions into practice. 
Besides, a thousand circumstances were 
likely to operate in my favour in the 



148 Tht Country Curate. 

cbuntryj^ nvhich could hardly be ex« 
pected^to occur in town^— aud let me 
do justice to myself, I was then seri- 
ous in my design of acquiring other 
and better habits. Smile if you will 
here, but it is true. I actually felt 
at that time remorse, deep remorse, 
for my past misdeeds. I was actually 
eager to begin my new course of li- 
ving, — indeed, a gentleman of your 
doU), to whom in epistolary corre- 
spondence I opened my mind, assured 
me, that I had experienced the new 
birth. My correspondent was a pupil 
of Mr Simeon, and an intimate ac-i 
quaintance of the Laureate. 
. *' Well, I returned to the country. I 
found all things as lonely and comfort- 
less as they had been when I left it ; 
I determined that they should be 
otherwise. My first directions to the 
bouse steward were, that a huge caul- 
dron of good broth should be made 
ready every Tuesday and Saturday, 
and given to the poor. I caused a 
large portion of the village church to 
be new-pewed at my own expense, and 
presented the altar with a new cover- 
ing, the desk and pulpit with new 
cushions. I visited the school; put 
my name down as a subscriber to dou- 
ble the amo At formerly given ; gave 
directions that each of the boys should 
be supplied with a cap and gaberdine, 
and each of the girls with a frock and 
bonnet, at my cost. I attended one or 
two parish meetings ; looked narrowly 
into the accounts of the overseer ; or- 
dered relief (for no one presumed to 
contradict my wishes) to several pau- 
pers who had been previously refused, 
and spoke largely of the necessity un- 
der which we all lay of alleviating 
each other's distresses. Several poach- 
ers were brought before me as a jus- 
tice of the peace ; I reprimanded them 
severely ; but as the crime had been 
committed on my own lands, I did no 
more. I dismissed them, and desired 
that they would never poach again. In 
a word, the change wrought in my 
behaviour and notions astonished all 
men. I was now talked of as the good 
squire, as the very pattern and model 
of a country gentleman ; all this oc- 
curred previous to the return of the 
rector. 

^^From the little which I have already 
said of Dr Traverses temper and ideas, 
you will readily believe that he suf- 
fered me not to continue long in doubt 
aa to the satisfaction which my pre- 



ftent oondnet gare him. He wilMI 
upon me a f&w days after he had- t^ 
sumed his parochial labours, and ■poke 
to me more as a parent is wmit to 
speak to his son, tmin a village pastOF 
to his next neighbour. I was deeply 
affected. The perfect independence 
of manner — ^the more than independ* 
ence — the decided superiority which a 
consciousness of rectitude always sheds 
over a man's external actions, shone 
prominentiy forth in the good doctor's 
deportment, and I felt, and acknow* 
ledged it; ay, and with little, very 
little of the bitterness with whidi I 
had been accustomed to feel it in other 
days. We became intimate friends^ 
My past errors were blotted out; I 
was admitted at all seasons to the rec- 
tory, and in three months after the 
commencement of my reformatiooi 
was rewarded with the hand of Lucy. 
" If you or any other individual can 
explain whence it arose, that I was 
hardly put in possession of the jBiie 
for which I had so long sighed, ere it 
began to lose its value in my eyes, I 
wiU freely admit that men are ,noC 
over-ruled in their deeds and wills b 
an irresistible fate. That I evor cea 



toy 

seQ 



to love Lucy — I say not Far firom 
it. I doated upon her ever, ever : I 
doat upon her memory now— I mean 
that I abhor and execrate myself fkx 
my behaviour towards h^; But what 
then? We hadbeen married little more 
than six weeks, when I began to see a 
thousand things in her general denuea* 
nour of which I could not aj^Kroye. 
Sometimes she was a great deal too 
affectionate towards myself,-Hit was 
silly — nay it produced a suspicion that 
it could not be real. I checked it, and 
checked it rudely. At other times she 
was too cold and distant ; I more than 
once caught her weeping. I hated 
tears, and I told her so. Then her 
unwearied att^tion to the poor and to 
the schools disgusted me. I became 
gloomy, morose. Irritable. At last I 
determined to return again into paldio 
life. Ambition was now '.the idol of 
my worship. I resolved to shine in 
Parliament, and for this purpose I 
bargained for a seat, as the representa.* 
tive of a neighbouring borough, at the 
trifling cost of seven uousand pounds; 
^^ My gentle Lucy endeavoured onoe, 
and only once, to divert me from my- 
scheme. As a matter of course, I w/^ 
|mted her opposition to the worst -mon 
tives, and in truth, had my mind not 



1896.11 



Tk€ Country Cufak, Chap. V. The FataHsL 



been preriously made up to the mat- 
ter, the very fact of her having ven- 
tured to speak against it would have 
determined me, I brought my bar- 
gain to a close. To msLke good my 
stipulations, I was obliged once more 
'to have recourse to the plan of an an- 
nuity ; and a8 my creditor chanced to 
be aware that the estate was entailed, 
he farther insisted upon my insuring 
my life. For the loan of seven thou- 
sand pounds, I accordingly lessened my 
revenues by seven hundred; having 
little more tnan twelve hundred a-year 
to support my new dignity. 

'' For some time after the commence- 
ment of my career as a senator, I was 
myself conscious of a change for the 
better, both in my habits and notions. 
There was some excitation continu- 
ally on my mind. I desired to take a 
lead as a speaker ; once or twice I was 
fortunate, and my success delighted 
me. But like most men in a similar 
situation, I 'permitted my vanity to 
carry me beyond my depth. I ven- 
tured to oppose the minister on a Ques- 
tion which I had never studiea ; I 
gave utterance to certain common- 
places badly put together, and ending 
in nothing. The honourable gentle- 
man who replied, turned me into utter 
ridicule ; I reached my hom^ in a state 
of insanity. 

^^ And now I come to a detail of the 
blackest part in my black course. I 
hated the man who had thus silenced 
me, with the hatred of a brother who 
has quarrelled with his brother. Mine 
was not a rancour to be appeased by 
anything short of the death of him 
who had offended me. There was not 
a morning of my life, part of which 
was not now devoted to pistol shooting. 
I practised till I could split a ball upon 
the edge of my knife, or snuff a can- 
dle at twelve paces distant; and as 
soon as I had attained this degree of 
perfection, I laid myself out for a 
quarrel. In public and in private I 
sought every opportunity to insult and 
irritate my opponent. I strove to sa- 
tirize him as he had satirized me, be- 
fore the House; but I was no wit, 
and my satire consequently degenera- 
ted into personal invective : I was call- 
ed to order. Out of doors I was more 
successful. Though a brave man, he 
was exceedingly good-tempered, and 
either did not, or would not, see my 
intentions for some time. At length, 



14* 

however, I insulted him so grassly lii 
the lobby of the Opera-house, that it 
was out of his power to pass it by ; 
he sent me a messa&e. I accepted his 
challenge ; and as there was some risk 
of the affair getting wind, I proposed , 
that we should settle our dispute wiA« 
out delay. We met at an early hour 
the following morning, and at the first 
fire I shot him through the heart. 

" Was I happy after this ? — hj no 
means. Matters had been so well ar« 
ranged, that though all the world 
knew by what hand my victim had 
met his death, the coroner's jury found 
themselves at a loss to say on whom 
the suspicion of guilt should rest. As 
far as my immediate fortunes were 
concerned, therefore, I experiencJed 
from the result of the duel no incon* 
venience whatever; but my mind was 
never for an instant at rest. If ever 
man deliberately committed murder, I 
did. I prepared myself before-hand 
for a meeting — I studiously sought for 
it — ^and I went to attend it in the firm 
determination of destroying my enemy 
if I could. Were it possible to believel 
that men are free agents — ^were I not 
perfectly satisfied that we never act 
out as fate decrees — I should regs^ 
myself as the most guilty and cold« 
blooded of assassins. Nay, let me ac- 
knowledge my own inconsistency; such 
was the light in which I then viewed 
— such is the light in which I some« 
times view myself still. 

" From that fatal day, I became more 
than ever a torment to myself, and to 
all around me. To Lucy I was abso« 
lutely cruel. We had been roamed 
upwards of a year and a half, and she 
brought me no child. Shall I confess 
it ? I upbraided her for this, as if it 
were something blameable on her part) 
and yet I loved her all the while with 
an intensity such as few married men 
experience for their wives. Amiable 
and eentle being ! She bore my re- 
proaches with the meekness of an an« 
gel; she wept under them, but she 
never complained. Her father believed 
to the last that she was the happiest 
of women, and I the best of husbands. 
Everything, too, went wrong with me. 
I lost all interest in public business; 
the very gaming-talue produced not 
sufficient excitement. I had reconrse 
to the bottle. Among bon-vivants and 
jolly souls, none were no)y my supe- 
riors; and I reeled home> morning 



The Counirp Curate. Chap. V. Th FatalisL 



UQ 

after monuiig, only to overwhelm with 
leproaches and abiwe one who never 
gave me cause to reproach her, even 
through inadvertence. 

^^ ^ a natural consequence upon the 
kind of life which I had led, my afi&irs 
became deeply involved. Creditors were 
importunate; and the very Jews re- 
fused to furnish me with money, ex- 
cept on terms such as even I perceived 
to be ruinous. At last an execution 
was threatened ; my furniture, plate, 
horses, carriages, were all about to be 
adied. - What was now to be done I 
ndther knew nor cared. 

" My wife, though the daughter of a 
country clergyman, was connected, 
both by the father and mother's side, 
with several families of distinction. 
One of her maternal uncles had held 
some high situation in India, and her 
cousin now enjoyed the fruits of his 
toil, which he himself never lived to 
eigoy. He mixed with the best cir- 
cles—supported a splendid establish- 
ment — and withal was regarded, by 
those who knew him, as a person of 
singularly kind heart and correct mo- 
rals. Of course he visited liis cousin 
when she appeared in the hemisphere 
cf London as the wife of an M. P. ; 
and as she liked his society we saw a 
good deal of him. Only conceive^ sir, 
X became jealous, madly jealous, of 
that man. I contrasted his frank, open, 
and affectionate manner, with my own 
pettish and inconsistent deportment. 
I could not deny that the first was far 
more attractive than the last, and I 
came to the conclusion that it must be 
•o regarded by my wife. There want- 
ed but some decided act of friendship 
on his part towards Lucy to convince 
me, Uiat a criminal passion subsisted 
between them. 

'* When the execution above referred 
to actually occurred, Lucy, worn cut 
with irregular hours, and broken in 
spirit by my unkind treatment, was ex- 
ceedingly ill ; — the effect of the seizure 
of our numiture was to increase her ill- 
ness to an alarming degree. I was not 
within when the bsuliffs arrived, other- 
wise I should have probably done 
some deed which might have been the 
means of cutting short my course, as 
it deserved to be cut sborL The news 
was brought to me at a moment when 
my last guinea was staked upon the 
turn of a die. The throw was against 
me, 80 I rushed forth with the firm 



DNn 



determination fof committing inkHb, 
First, howevor, I resolved to n#^wifli 
my own eyes how matten itood «l 
home: for which purpose I flew toi- 
wards Harley Street. I was met «t 
mv own door by Mr Blake, Lucyfs 
relative. 

" ' For God's sake go In and comlbtt 
your wife, St Clair, said he ; ' abe 
IS very ilL I am now on my way lor 
a physician.' 

" I passed him without speaking a 
word. The bailifis were gone; the 
furniture and effects all stood as I lad 
left them in the morning.- I beliewd 
that I was in a dream. I ran up stairs, 
to my wife's apartment, and found her 
lying upon a sofa in violent hysterics. 
Her maid was attending to her as well 
as she could, but I desired her to leane 
the room, and she did so. 

" * How is this, Lucy?' said I,afibct- 
ing to be calm. ' Have done witli 
these airs, and tell me how it comes 
abofit that there are no bailifis in the 
house. I thought that an ezecntioM 
had been going on.' 

*' ' And so it was,' cried she, strag«i 
gling to subdue her emotions: ' We 
were indeed ruined; but Blake^-^ 
good, kind Blake,--discharged the 
debt, and we are still left in possesiioa 
of our house. — Oh, Charles^ I wiM 
never, never upbraid you with the past; 
but let us change our mode of living. 
How happy were we at ClaremontL 
till ' 

" ' Till what ?' exclaimed I, madly ; 
^ Till I took into family, and to my 
bosom, a wretch that has dishonomed 
me ! — Blake, Blake, eternally Blake I 
— He paid the* debt, and how was he 
paid ?^ 

" ^ Charles,' replied Lucy rising; and 
with dignity, ^ this is the worst of alii 
Neglect, harshness, cruelty, I coold 
bear ; but to hear you insinuate aught 
against my honour, or that of my can* 
sin, to whom you are so deeply in4 
debted ' 

'^ My brain was on fire. I replied 
not ; but struck her violently in tfa* 
face with my clenched fist. She fbU— 
a corner of the fender entered her 
temple — and she never moved again 1 

*' A notion very generally prevaila» 
that insane persons, at least during 
the paroxysms of insanity, are igno^ 
rant of all things which pass around 
them. The notion is not more com* 



1S26.] 



The Counit^ Curate. Chap. V. The FaiaHd. 



tnonihan erroneous. I have been tbe 
inhabitant of a cell for six long years, 
•— mad^ ravuigj outrageously niad>— 
and there occurred not an«vent^ either 
to myself or others, of which I was 
not perfectly aware at the time, and of 
which I retain not now the clearest 
recollection. I saw numbers of wretch- 
es, the slaves indeed of a wayward 
fancy, but I never saw one who felt 
not that he was not where he ought 
to be, or where nature designed him 
to be. For myself I had no fancy. 
My sole desire^ it is affirmed, was to 
destroy all who came within my reach, 
or to destroy myself. — How was this 
prevented ? You shall know. 

'^ Having tried every other method 
in vain — having torn my back with 
the whip — subjected me to the re- 
straint of a strait waistcoat — chained 
me down for days together to my crib 
— and finding, as it was affirmed, that 
I possessed craft enough to be calm 
till I was released, and only till then, 
the tyrants vented their spleen upon 
me thus. I recollect the occasion well. 
I had been for some time fastened by 
a long chain, which, passing througn 
a hole in the partition, enabled tne 
keeper, 6y going into the next cell, to 
draw me close against the wall at plea- 
sure. This he was in the habit of 
doing several times a-day, and then 
lashed me till the exercise wearied 
his arm. If I had been violent be- 
fore, such treatment of course increa- 
sed my violence. I no sooner felt the 
chain tightened than I roared like a 
wild beast ; and when the brute ap- 
peared^ armed as he invariably was, 
with a heavy cart whip, I gnashed my 
teeth upon him in impotent fury.— 
But I had my revenge. With the 
straw allowed me in lieu of a bed, I 
so stuffi^'d the chain, that it could not 
be forced through the aperture. One 
morning the wretch strove in vain to 
draw me up as usual ; he failed, and 
trusting, I suppose, to the effect of 
habitual terror upon my mind, ven- 
tured to come witnin my reach. Ha, 
it was a glorious moment[! I shrunk 
up as I had been wont to do, into the 
corner, for the purpose of deceiving 
him; he followed, brandishing his 
whip, and prepared to strike. One 
bound brought him within my clutch. 
Sir, I had no weapons but my hands 
and feet, but they were suffiaent. I 
caught him by the hair, dashed him 



cm his fiice to the groimd, and then 
planting my knees strongly, uposi his 
shoulders, I tore his h^ Mok till 
the joints of the neck began to give 
way. Fortunately for him, the strngh 
gle had been overheard, and assistimce 
arrived just in time to save his worUi^i 
less life. 

'' It was in consequence of that act 
that a new mode of restraint was ex« 
ercised upon me. An iron collar was 
rivetted round my neck, to which was 
attached a massive chain, only twelve 
inches in length. This was again 
made fast to a ring in a strong iron 
pillar, so formed as that it could slide 
upwards or downwards ; the pillar it« 
self being built into the wall, and of 
the height of six feet. RoiU|d my bo« 
dy another iron girdle of vast strength 
was soldered, about two inches in 
width, attached to which were two 
circular projections, one on each side, 
for the purpose of pinioning and re- 
straining my arms. To keep the gir« 
die in its place again, other bars crossi 
ed my shoulders, and were rivetted 
to it botli before and behind ; whilst 
a couple of links, connecting the col- 
lar with the shoulder-straps, and a 
couple of chains fastening the back* 
bars to the pillar, — all power of moving 
head, hands, and arms was taken away 
from me. Thus was I kept for four 
whole years. I could lie down, it is 
true, because my trough was jplaced 
close to the wall, and t^ ring m the 
pillar being made to slrae, permitted 
me to stoop or stand upri^t. But 
when I did lie, it was only on my back^ 
the sharp pomts in the girdle effec- 
tually hipdering me from resting oa 
my sides. Nor were the miscreants 
contented with this. They chained 
my right leg to the trough, in order, 
as they said, to guard against violence 
from kicking. Standing and lying were 
accordingly the only changes of pos- 
ture ; I could not walk, for the cnain 
which held me to the wall measured 
no more than twelve inches. Mv gar- 
ments rotted from my back, ana were 
replaced by a blanket ; my food was 
hsdf-dressed lumps of beef without 
salt, and potatoes; and then for my 
amusement — ^music, I had music— 
but it was the inusic of damned spi-. 
rits — the howls and execrations of the 
furious — ^the laugh and shriek of the 
idiot — ^these were the only sounds to 
which I listened by day and by night. 



1Z»3 The Country Curate. 

till my beard had grown to my chin, 
and the nails of my fingers were like 
the talons of an eagle. 

<^ Thus was it till a change took 
^oe in the arrangement of the asy- 
lum. How it came ahout^ I know 
not ; hut after enduring this treatment 
for a series of years^ I was one day set 
at liberty, and furnished with proper 
clothing. Whether my mind was ever 
in a state of chaos, I cannot tell. There 
4ire moments when I believe it. There 
flure others when I believe it not ; per- 
haps it may be the case still. 

'* I was aet free as odc cured. They 
told me that my wife died from acci- 
■dentally foiling upon the fender, and 
ihat my grief for her decease turned 
•my bram. Poor fools, they knew not 
;^liat it was I who killed her. 

'^ My af&irs had, during the period 
4a£ my eonfinement, in some degree re- 



Chap. V. Tfte FaidUL ^€6.' 

covered themselvea ; but I waa itfll an 
embarrassed man. To hdp me oat of 
my embarrassments, an iqppomtment 
in India was procured fca* me. There 
I have spent the last ten yieaiv, and 
with the mode of my return you are 
acquainted." 



Thus ended a tale as wild and ex-i 
travagant as any which I ever per- 
used. The impression left upon my 
own mind was, tnat the poor gentleman 
laboured under a derangement of in« 
tellect when he compUied it. I be* 
lieve it is no uncommon matter for 
insane persons to fancy thenisdves 
stained with a thousand crimes which 
they never perpetrated, and the vic- 
tims of a thousand evils which they 
never endured; and I am strongly 
disposed to hold that opinion in the 
case of my shipwrecked guest. 



ON THE DRAMATIC POWERS OF THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY. 



Why does not ilie Author of Waverley 
write a play ? The question has been 
'often asked, but I do not know that I 
have ever heard it fully and satisfac- 
torily answered. No less an authori- 
tjr than Sir Walter Scott, has given 
Ins opinion, that the habits of narra- 
tion unfit a novelist for a species of 
composition whidi consists altogether 
of aialogue'^ and of dialogue from 
which the narrative and the descrip- 
tive must be wholly banished. This 
is nothing else than saying, ihat the 
novelist requires larger and more va- 
ried powers than the dramatic writer. 
Dialogue, choice of character and in- 
cident, are common to both. The 
difierence lies in narrating and de- 
scribing, in the novel, what is not 
written in the drama, but represented 
in the scenery, or done by the actors 
on the stage. The triumph of the 
drama is in the incidents which dc- 
velope passion, and the language which 
gives it utterance ; and it is the power 
which the Great Unknown possesses, 
of throwing his characters into those 
situations in which the human heart 
works the strongest, and suffers the 
deepest, and of giving to the keenest 
anguish, and the most stormy i)assion, 
language of terrible fidelity, that has 
placed his tvritings upon , a level. 



scarcely ever approadhed but by him^ 
with the wonders of Homer and Shdc* 
speare. In mere description, it ia 
true, he yields to no poet, not ta the 
highest, of ancient or modem ti«M8« 
The landscape almost Uvea in fala 
page. It is truer than painting. Hiere 
IS an extent in the grouping, and -a 
minute variety, which no pencil could 
picture. We tremble at me brink oC 
a precipice, and listen for the voice of 
the waters that are raging and roaziiM^ 
below. We shudder at the appfoaS 
of a devouring flood, and at tine n^id 
ruin which it spreads aa it advanoea. 
We are hurried along in die tnnhilt 
of the battle; and » see, not posture, 
but action ; not the struggle of a dn- 
gle moment, but a succession of dan« 
gers and achievements. In no ofiher 
writings, except those of the great 
poets I have just mentioned, and per- 
haps the productions of the £eBi 
Athenian orator, (for eloquence^ m its 
highest state, differs little from poie 
poetry,) do we find so many passages^ 
in which we are prone to forge^^ut 
we are not beholders or hearers, but 
readers only, in which we grow un. 
conscious that our conceptions are 
awakened merely by the magi^ which 
genius can lend to language. • 
But it is surely too much to say, $liat 

5 



I«3«0 



(hi the Dramatic Powers of the Author of Waver ley. 



because description is more diffuse than 
dlitlogae, that he who excels in both' 
^combined, may not succeed in eithet 
separately. Still more inconsistent is 
it to maintain, that the writer whose 
grandest feats are performed by ex- 
hibiting the passions through the lan- 
guage of those they agitate, and by 
means of such situations as best un- 
fold them, could not excel in a kind 
of composition, confined to that work 
only. It is easy to show by reference, 
bptn to particular parts of the novels 
of the Author of Waverley, and gene- 
rally to those of his tales which have 
been most popular, that his most suc- 
cessful efforts have been in passages 
essentially dramatic. I shall select 
but two of these passages, both of 
which shall be from Ivanhoe ; and I 
select from that tale, chiefly because, 
highly dramatic as it is throughout^ 
its descriptions have been often deem- 
ed the principal cause of its great po- 
pularity. 

The first is the interview between 
Rebecca and Brian de Bois-Guilbert, 
in the chamber of her confinement in 
Front-de-Boeuf's castle. Bois-Guil- 
bert, a Templar, sworn to celibacy by 
the vows of his order, had taken Re- 
becca and her father prisoners, in an 
excursion from the castle. He enters 
her apartment, and' after confessing 
his rank and calling, and seeking in 
vain to win her by persuasion to his 
desires, threatens her with violence by 
the right of the conqueror over his 
captive. The situation, even at this 
moment, is fraught with harrowing 
interest. A woman, young, lovely, 
and a captive, of a degraded caste, yet 
with a loftiness of soul that never 
. left her for a moment, through danger 
or debasement, stands, alone and de- 
fenceless, under the licentious gaze, 
and within the grasp, of a lawless and 
remorseless ruffian, come with the 
avowed purpocs of violating her ho- 
nour. Escape is impossible ; suppli- 
cation is useless ; resistance vain. The 
ruin of the victim seems inevitable. 
The next instant, by one prompt and 
decisive act of heroic fortitude^that 
act her own— she is snatched from the 
sacrifice. But it is only to encounter 
another peril, scarcely less horrible. 
Opening a latticed window, she springs 
upon the battlement, and exulting in 
the alternative of the dreadliil death 
which the precipice offers to her, she 
taunts the ravisiner with her security 

Vol.. XIX. 



153 

from his violence. Never did drama- 
tic poet imagine a situation more in- 
tensely agitating. Never did any ^X 
conceive a more lofty instance of the 
moral sublime; the love of purity, 
the dread of dishonour, the intrepid 
dignity of habitual virtue, joined to a 
high sense of what she deemed due to 
the ancient faith of her fathers — a 
faith which she cherished with a spirit 
unbroken by fatigue, captivity, soli- 
tude, and insult— all urging weak wo- 
man to brave the King of Terrors in 
one of his most appalling forms. One 
might well expect tnat language would 
faint under the effort to give expres- 
sion to the emotions which, at such a 
crisis, must agitate such a being. The 
author tries the experiment ; and the 
success is, if possible, more wonder- 
ful than the previous work which 
made success so hazardous; The sen- 
timents that burst from his heroine, 
are those which alone could sustain 
her at the elevation to which he had 
raised her ; defiance to her brutal foe ; 
an appeal to her religion, which she 
was saving f^om pollution in her own 
person ; an expression of horror at 
the fate f^om wiiich, by her own high 
cburiage, she is thus rescued, mixed 
with triumph at the dreadful means 
of refuge to which she resorts. Dra- 
matic poetry furnishes not a speech 
of sublimer pathos than that com- 
prised in these brief words :-^*' Sub- 
mit to my fate ! — ^And sacred Heaven ! 
to what fate ? — embrace thy religion ! 
and what religion can it be that har- 
bours such a villain ? — Thou the best 
lance of theTemplars! — cravenKntghtf 
"^forsworn Priest! — 1 spit at thee, 
and I defy thee. The Crod'of Abra* 
ham's promise hath opened an escape 
to his daughter — even from this abyss 
of infamy. ' 

Nor is this alL The whole dialogue 
which foUows is held to the same ele- 
vation ; nor, to the conclusion of this 
wonderful scene, does it descend for 
one moment. It is rather enhanced 
by the final conquest gained by an 
unprotected Jewish maiden over the 
haughty Templar, a warrior, and a 
conqueror, cowed by the fearless va- 
lour of mere unaided virtue, into an 
^ involuntary homage to its purity. I 
may observe here, that this is a kind of 
contrast, which is, in all works of the 
imi^^ination, especially those of the 
dramatic kin<1, of infinite power. It 
is when. moral strength, coming in 

U 



On- the Dt-amalic Fuivtra of lite Author ipf IVav^d'ii-i;- 



aid of physical weakness^ wins an uii- 
expected victory over mere brute phy- 
sical force^ which seemed^ and was 
bielieved^ to be above resistance. 

The other passage which I shall 
notice, is that of Rebecca's trial for 
pretended witchcraft. The Templar 
has borne her off from Front-de- 
Hoeuf's castle when it was stormed 
and burned, and has concealed her in 
the establishment of his order, nt 
Templestowe. She is discovered by 
the Grand Master ; and the Waiden, 
a friend of Bois-Guilbert, persuades 
him, as the only means of escaping the 
punishment incurred by a Templar 
convicted of an intrigue with an in- 
fidel, to sanction a charge, preferred 
against Rebecca, of having employed 
sorcery to seduce him. Before the 
whole body of the Templars, assembled 
in their hall with all the pomp of the 
order, with the Grand Master, a weak 
;(nd austere bigot, at their head, she 
is brought forth, without an advocate 
or an attendant, to answer a charge, 
in establishing which the pride of the 
order, anxious that the frailty of a 
brother should be proved not to have 
flowed from human corruption— the 
universal belief in the existence and 
efficacy of witchcraft — and the detes- 
tation in which the age and country 
held her race — conspired to overwhelm 
a beautiful Jewess, whose loveliness 
was considered as the instrument, and 
therefore taken as a proof, of her 
guilt. Here again she was alone, a 
woman, and defenceless; before ad- 
verse and interested judges — an arm- 
ed tribunal — an ecclesiastical court — 
clothed with the triple terrors of arms, 
religion, and law ; from whose judg- 
ment, in those bigotted and forceful 
times, appeal was hopeless. Can any 
addition be conceived possible, to the 
sympathies arising from this subjec- 
tion of innocence unprotected, and 
beauty made a crime, before interest- 
ed guilt, brandishing a stern, remorse- 
less, and resistless power ? The au- 
thor finds a circumstance to make 
pity still more deep and painful, by 
enhancing our sense of the purity of 
the victim, and of the heartless rigour 
oif her enemies. She is ordered to un- 
veil. She pleads in excuse the customs 
of her people, that a maiden should 
not stand uncovered " when alone in 
an assembly of strangers." At the 
stem mandate of the Grand Master, 
the guards are al)out rudely to unveil 



CFefc, 



her. — " Nay, but for the love of your 
own daughters," she cried, addresnng ^ 
the senior jut^es; — *' alas, you have bo 
daughters ! — ^butfor the remembrance 
of your mothers— for the love of your 
sisters, and of female decency, let me 
not be thus handled in your presenioe. 
It suits not a maiden to be diarobed 
by sucli rude grooms. — I will obev 
you," (and she withdrew her ▼eil-) 
** Te are elders among ijovr people; akd 
at yotir command, I will show vou the 
feaivres of an ill-fated maiden. The 
scene did not require this last exqui- 
site touch of nature, the excuse wnich 
the poor persecuted Jewish maid^ finr-* 
ced to forego the decent customs of 
her race, thus makes to her own 
wounded modesty, when she telli her 
judges that she will obey them, be- 
cause they are elders among thdr peo« 
pie. 

But in a few moments the character 
of the scene changes. Pity gives way 
to admiration. Rebecca appears aw^ain, 
cool, collected, fearless in tne midst of 
danger, as when before she. looked 
down without a shudder upon death, 
and stood vdth an eye that '^ quailed 
not," and a cheek that " blanched 
not," upon the brink of the battle* 
ment. She is condemned to die the 
death of a sorceress — to be burnt alin^ 
Yet her spirit bends not. She suppB- 
cates no mercy from h^ judges, nor 
intercession from her accuser ; but 
with the boldness and pride of con«« 
scious innocence, indignant at a charge, 
not against her piety merely^ out 
against the purity of her maimni ho-p 
nour, she turns tp Bois-Guilbert and 
cries, — *' To himself— yes, Brian de 
Bois-Guilbert, to thyself I appeal* 
whether these accusations are nol 
false ? — as monstrous and calumnioos 
as they are deadly ?" There is a pause ; 
all eyes turn to Bois-G^bert ; he is 
silent. " Speak," she says, " if thou 
art a man — if Uiou art a Chiistiaii^ " 
speak! I conjure thee, by the habit 
which thou dost wear — ^by the name 
thou dost inherit — by the knighthbod 
thou dost vaunt — by the honour of 
thy mother—by the tomb and tbe 
bones of thy father — I conjure thee to 
say, are these things trUe r" 

The group and the situation in tli&r 
scene, to say nothing now of tbe aa« , 
tonishing powers of Isngaage display- 
ed in it, have, for dramatic efiect, 
been seldom equalled. The Pjaoe, tlie 
assemblage, are imposing. The cha« 



_ _ « 

1826.]] On th9 DramcUic Powers of the Aul/ior of fPaverlet/, 1S6 

racters^ strongly marked as individuals nature, but does not step beyond them^ 
throughout the work, are here brought she adopts the suggestion on the iu* 
out in full and clear developemcnt. stant, and, for a time, she is saved. 
Tlie Grand Master, a gloomy reli- The suspense and anxiety impressed 
gionist, severe and self-denying in his on the reader or the audience by such 
own person, devoted to the interests a scene, is extreme. Here, as in the 
of his order, and sore of any imputa- passage before referred to, there seems 
tjou on its credit, — the sworn foe of no hope of refiige.* Bois-Guilbert, who 
the infidel, sits in judgment on a Jew- alone could prove her innocence, is 
ess, accused of having corrupted, by her accuseri Even thfe poor grateful 
hellish arts, the purity of a Templar, creature, who had been cured by her 
Still the Grand Master is. a man. Pity skill in medicinal9> and had come for- 
for the youth, the beauty, and the in- ward to disprove the charge of sorcery 
trepidity of the victim, all friendless by giving evidence of her beneficent 
as she is, incline him to clemency ; acts, is deemed only to have confirmr 
but habit, superstition, and the spirit ed her guilt, which is presumed from 
of his order, are too strong for nat\ire, the very skill thus pleaded in her fa- 
and he finally remains stem and in- vour. The judges are convinced, and 
flexible. Bois-Guilbert, a man not inexorable ; but she is again preser- 
wholly vicious, but of violent passions, ved in a manner the most unexpected 
which long indulgence had made nn- and sudden. And again, to crown the 
governable, and which had choked triumphs of the poet's genius, she is 
up, though not quite destroyed, the her own preserver, 
early seeds of virtue, stands struggling But strong as is the temptation, I 
between, on the one hand, ardentlove, must for the present forbear from far- 
or a passion of equal force which ther allusion to particular passages, 
usurped its place, inspiring a rude and humbly undertake the ofilcc of 
sense of right ; and, on the other, the attempting to vindicate the author of 
dread of shame and d^radation, and Waverley, from the implied imputa- 
of the loss of long-cherished projects tion of incapacity for dramatic compo- 
of ambition. Half inclined to relent, sition, that has not long since fallen 
he is by turns scolded and soothed by from a quarter, from which the pub- 
the wily Warden, who, having aided lie, for some reason or other, were 
his designs upon Rebecca, and being least inclined to expect it. 
fearful of a disclosure, is interested in The lovers of the old genuine Bri- 
ber condemnation. Rebecca herself— tish drama had been for some time in- 
how shall 1 describe her ? — surrounded dulging and expressing hopes, that the 
with circumstances, and exhibiting amazing powers displayed m the whole 
qualities, all conspiring to render her series of these dramatic tales, (for such 
an object at once of sympathy, reve- in strictness they are,) woula be ap- 
rence, admiration, and even wonder, plied at length to prove, that the an- 
Her peril — terrible ; her beauty — the cient staple of British Uteratute had 
cause of it ; her innocence— unfriend- not for ever vanished from anaongst 
ed; her courage — ^unbroken by the us. As feach half-yearly period suc- 
prospect of the faggot that was to con- ceeded another, in which the Magician 
sume, and the stake that was to hold scattered his enchantments, he was 
fast in the flames her tortured body— besought by those who felt his charms 
or even by the perpetual infamy to moat deeply, to conjure back to us, in 
which her yet unspotted name was to his own proper form and dress, the 
be consigned. One thing only seems genius of Shakspeare. As if to show 
wanting to complete the sublime inte- us that poets and enchanters will not 
rest of the scene, that which gives the be bidden to their work, the Great Un« 
finish to all moral grandeur,— the tri- known has, I fear, announced through 
umph of cool, unaided, superior in- one, who is, somehowi supposed to 
tellect, over a host of foes, whose be the confidant of all his literary 
dreadful sentence no force could parry, secrets, that the mantle which Shak- 
And this addition is supplied. It is speare dropped, and which none after 
suggested, hurriedly, at the moment mm has ever since lifted, will be left 
when it is all but too late, that she still unappropriated by the nearest of 
should demand the trial by combat, his kindred, whom the world has seen 
and a champion. With a presenbe'of since he departed, 
mind which goes to the very limits of Sir Walter Scott, in his Critical and 

17 



156 



On the Dramatic Powers 



Bioerapliical Notice of Fieldingi pre- 
fixed to a late edition of that author's 
works, and written with all that de- 
lightful eaae and spirit which would 
have betrayed the writer^ even if it 
had not been dated from Abbotsford^ 
has the following passage : — " Force 
of character^ strength of expression, 
felicity of contrast and situation, a 
well-constructed plot, in which the 
developement is at once natural and 
unexpected, and where the interest is 
kept uniformly alive till summed up 
by the catastrophe ; — all these requi- 
sites are as essential to the labour of a 
novelist as to that of a dramatist, and 
indeed appear to comprehend the sum 
of the qualities necessary for success 
in both departments." It is scarcely 
possible for language to express, witn 
greater clearness and vigour, the title 
of the Author of Waverley to the same 
supremacy in the old sphere of the 
first glories of British genius, as in 
that new region which he has half- 
conquered, half- created for himself. 
But the hopes raised by this passage, 
which seems almost to promise what 
we have so long desired, are cruelly 
dealt with in the succeeding pages; 
and we are told, that '* he wno ap- 
plies with eminent success to the one 
(pursuit), becomes in some degree un- 
qualified for the other, — like the arti- 
zan, who, by a particular turn for ex- 
cellence in one mechanical department, 
loses the habit of dexterity necessary 
for acquitting himself with equal re- 
putation in another ; or as the artist, 
who has dedicated himself to the use 
of water-colours, is usually less dis- 
tinguished by his skill in oil-paint- 
ing.". 
If this opinion be well founded, we 

roust bid adieu to all hopes of the re- 
generation of the drama, perhaps for 
another century. It is not likely that 
the next age will be more prolific in 
the works of the imagination than the 
last. The world is growing sadly un- 
poetical ; and if the greatest dramatic 
genius which has appeared for a cen- 
tury and a half has, by his habits of 
composition, unfitted mmself for that 
kind of poetry, where can we expect 
the adventurous spirit to arise that 
will attempt the task, and achieve it, 
in which tne Author of Waverley, had 
he tried it, must have failed ? 

But I do not think the present ge- 
neration will easily be induced to be- 
lieve that tJie genius of a poet can, by 



*• ■ ■• 



of the Author of WaterUjf. C7^ 

any habits, be confined 'finf erdf M & 
certain track, lOre the mechanic ftii3 
the artist, whose powers of execatiofi 
depend as much, and Often fiur inore«, 
upon manual dexterity, thiim^on tile 
intellect or the imagination. Tho 
great critic, whose fiat I now ventiut 
to question, is himself an example df 
versatility, more than sufficient to ^ 
show, that the creative fiiuniltj, in- 
stead of becoming fettered by ite own 
works, and growing less iBexible by 
progressive excellence in one Sec- 
tion, may increase in strengQij as ica 
sphere of exertion becomes Imer and 
more various, and, after holduig the 
world for years in admiration of ith 
deeds in old and beaten paths, maj 
astonish still more by its exploits i^on 
new and untrodden ground. 

The passage first quoted is indeed 
a decisive answer to tne second. F|i6- 
titious narrative and dramatic po^tr^ 
are of kindred natures. The hoydist 
must be, to a certain extent; a^ drama- 
tist ; or, ill as far as he faik in beii^ 
such, his works will want truth, yi- 
vacity, and power. The moat dabo^ 
rate descriptions of the loveliest and 
sublimest objects, the most vivid iiar* 
ratives of events of the highest inter 
rest, will not of themselyes ma&e a 
novel readable. The peisomi m«i| 
speak as well as act, or they wfll ttt* *. 
cite but little sympath}^. Sentimed| 
and passion cannot be given at wo^o^ 
hana; — they can be uiown odIjW 
the language of those who fisel atia 
are agitated. And if it is thedMniade ' 
character that gives life and spirit to 
a novel, the novelist who imparta it 
to his works must surely beeome,' bj 
each successive trial, more and Bujre 
qualified for dramatic compositioD; 

It is urged at some length, in tlie 
disquisition which I here presaine to 
canvass, that narration and descriptloii 
are so foreign from the dramiEfcj tiuit 
they cannot be pursued long by anr 
writer without impairing his dnunatw 
powers ; and Fielding is alleged ae an 
instance of the truth of this opinioii. 
Fielding's plays certainly add nothing 
to his reputation ; but it is tery fior 
from clear that his habits of narrstkiii 
prevented his success in that style of 
writing. It is indeed imposuUe to 
read a dozen pages of any of hia no* 
vels, without perceiving that bit WM 
never a dramatic genius. Hia' fftHA 
excellence is in deicribing ritnatiottSi ^ 
In dialogue he is always difiVue, Ifliil * 



1S20.3 



Oh iht Dramatic Towers of the Author of Wt^titrte^. 



1S7 



•ften dull. Nq writer e?er exodled 
him in unfoldii^ the mysteries of hu- 
man character ; hat io the execution 
of this part of his art^ it is the novel- 
ist himself that speaks, and not the 
persons who figure in . his history. 
Fielding was hy nature .denied the 
power of throwing into a few hrief 
words all that could he told of the 
wildest passion or the deepest dis- 
tress ; and hence, though we are al- 
ways interested, we are seldom, if 
ever, agitated by the perusal of his 
works. £nough of the dramatic is in 
them to preserve animation ; but clear 
and rapid glimpses of characters, un- 
folding themselves as if without the 
assistance of the author, — guilt work- 
ing up spontaneously into me ferment 
that betrays it, — tenderness or anguish 
expressing themselves in the fitAil, 
broken, half-uttered language, which 
affects us as much by what we ima- 
gine, though it is left uns})oken, as by 
what is freelv and fully told, — these, 
and such as these, are tne instruments 
by which the dramatic poet maintains 
his dominion over our emotions ; — for 
these we shall look almost in vain in 
the writings of Fielding, — in every 
other writer of this class they ap- 
pear at intervals, and as a sort of 
coups de main upon the reader ; but 
they are crowded, as a matter of course, 
ana as part of the ordinary materief, 
in every production of the Author of 
Waverley. 

Although, therefore, the pla^s of 
Fielding are immeasurably inferior to 
his novds, it by no means follows that 
he would have succeeded at all better in 
the drama, had he never been a novel- 
ist. But that a writer who*excels in the 
dramatic parts of his novels should be 
disabled from composing a purely dra- 
matic work, because these parts are 
mixed with composition of a different 
kind, is hardly conceivable. His ex- 
cellence in these portions would seem, 
on the contrary, to be a proof that the 
powers necessary for their production 
are not, and cannot be, impaired by 
the habit of blending them with other 
styles of writing of an opposite cha- 
racter. The instance whicn Sir Walter 
himself adduces towards the close of 
his remarks on this subject, leads ir- 
resistibly the other way. " It fol- 
lows," he says, *' that though a good 
acting play may be made by selecting 
plot and character from a novel, yet 
scarcely any efibrt of genius .could 



render a jplay intaA namtive nxBahee/ 
In the former .case, the author has 
only to contract, die events within the 
space necessary for representation, — to 
cnoose the most striking characters, 
and exhibit them in the most forcible 
contrast,— discard from the dialogue 
whatever is redundant and tedious, — 
and so dramatize the whole. But we 
know not any efibrt of genius which 
would insert into a good play these 
accessaries of description and delinea- 
tion which are necessary to dilate it 
into a readable novel." Is it not ob- 
vious, that the author of a novel pos- 
sessing dramatic force, has actually 
performed all the requisites fyr a 
drama, and thathis work difiers ^m 
a play only in containing adctitional 
matter, unsuited, indeed, to the stage^ ^ 
but separable from the former a&r 
the whole is composed, and therefiR^ 
separable also in its first execution ?. 
Such a writer, in short, when compo-^ 
sing a play, is engaged in a work tnat 
difiers from h^s ordinary productions,- 
not in kind, but in quantity. If his 
powers are such, that he can include 
all the essentials of a drama in his 
novel, the writing of a play is to him 
but the omission of that which it is at 
his option to give or to withhold* 

The other illustration is beside our 
question here. It is perhaps perfectly 
true, that a play could not, by any e£fort 
of ingenuity or genius, beexpanded into 
a novel or a romance. But surdy the 
inference from this is, not that the 
writing of novels incapacitates the au-» 
thor for dramatic compositioii, but 
that the powers required for producing 
a perfect drama are not sufficient, o£ 
themselves, to qualify^ their possessor 
for fictitious narrative. 

The extraordinary success of the 
dramas taken from the writings of the 
Author of Waverley amply proves, that 
the prodigious quantity of narrative 
and descriptive writing which he has 
been pounng forth for more than a 
dozen years, has not, in him at least, 
impaired the vigour of a dramatic 
genius, of which even EngUsh lite- 
rature can furnish but a single rival. 
These pieces have, indeed, to comply 
with the humours of the day, been 
all produced in the shape of operas ; 
but everybody knows, that, of far 
the greater number, their music is 
the least attraction. Severed of our 
best performers have found in them 
characters suited to the exdrcis^ of 



158 



On the Dramatic Powers of the Author of Wcmrleif. 



their highest powers. The dialogue 
is, of course, uneven, and, in many 
instances, poor ; for part of it must 
have been supplied by the hand which 
pared down the remainder for the 
stage. Some of the incidents, natural 
and likely in the tale, are forced into 
a compass too narrow for probability- 
Many of the finest passages, and these 
the most dramatic, of the original 
work, are omitted in representation, 
from the difficulty of combining them 
with such as are retained, or from the 
laziness or incapacity of those who 
adapt them. But enough is left to 
show that die wand of tne enchanter 
% there, and is of power " to extend," 
whese he wills it, ^^ his sway over the 
stage." .We see the bones of the giant, 
which require but to be breathed upon, 
to assume the force and exhibit the 
movements of vigorous life. If the 
mere sketch of an author's plan, with 
a few of his own brief touches, mix* 
^ with the clumsy patch- work of a 
common artist, can interest and agi- 
tate an audience, what may not be ex- 
pected from a piece, completed by the 
master's own hand, and designed from 
the first for representation ? 

I believe the truth to be, that the 
most original, vigorous, fertile, and 
essentidly dramatic genius of tlie age, 
is deterred from the drama by other 
reasons than any misgivings concern- 
ing his own vast and various powers. 
And I believe these reasons will be 
found partly in the hazard which every 
modem play must encounter, and 
partly in the substantial and tempting 
attractions which other departments 
of hterature now offer to an author. 

The enormous size of our national 
theatres leads to a division of the 
play-going public into two grand sec- 
tions; — one composed of tnose who 
liear and see, the other of those who 
see only, idl banquets are, of course, 
fumiished and regulated according to 
ihe taste of the guests, for this simple 
reason, that if they disliked the fare, 
they would soon desert the parties of 
their entertainers. But, above all, it 



behoves managers t6 loit the pakitar 
at least of the most nu^nerous clataee 
of those who frequent their hooees.- 
Now it Is very Certain that thriee-* 
fifths of the aumences of our two lar- 
gest theatres hear almost as little of 
what is spoken upon the stage, as Uie 
inquisitive people who ding to posts 
and scaffblds auring a Westminster 
election, can distinguish of die oratory 
which produces the most violent ges- 
ticulations under the portico of St 
Paul's, Covent-Garden. This latgtf 
portion .of ** the discerning pubHc" go 
to a play with dispositions tat amuse' 
ment not at all differing, in kind, from 
the tastes of those curious and deligfaf- 
ed crowds that fiock together at Uie 
end of a street to witness the prodi-i 
^es of agility, performed to the beat^ 
mg of a drum, upon a four^posted 
theatre at some twenty yards di»i 
tance. And, indeed, it is a fkct wordi^ 
of notice, that the popularity of Polidi, 
which has wonderfully increased of 
late years, has otily kept even paccf 
with the growing love of Uie pabHc 
for those kinds of entertdmnents in 
which the eye is indemnified for Ae 
distance that prevents it firom disceiii^ 
ing the human countenance, try wiU 
nessing the miracles of machniery * 
and compensation is made to theenr^ 
for the want of sense, wit, or poe^, 
by tnlmic artillery and tbundcR - 

Far be it firom me to pride my fin* 
gers with the thorny questioiij bow 
rar this taste in the pubhe may have 
been caused by the monopoly of the 
two fkmous companies,* wlfidi widd 
over the stage a dominion, oarioiidl^ 
made up of confedCTate despotism am 
separate rivalry. The eflfect, homewt, 
is as natural and as certain, bA tiiftt 
children in frocks and jackets shovdd' 
gaze with wonder and delight upon a* 
contrivance of Farley's, or that a looif 
of Listen should set children of ott 
dresses and i^es in a roar. If ih^ wat^ 
dience are pleased with any descrm^ 
tion of drama or mode otvertHmMme, 
it becomes the care of the actor or die 
writer to supply it ; and the audience 



q*i 



* I must beg to say, that Mr North would confer a very great obligation en hfi 
teaders, if he would insert in one of his Numbers, the latter part of Sir Walter 
Scott*8 brief but admirable Essay on the Drama, contained in tlie Supplement toi. 
the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The proprietors of that work could not olgcct to. 
the publication of part of an article, which would induce every one who wosJd read 
it, if he had not the work, to purchase it, if he could, for the sake of the remiw- 
der. 



IBSW.] On 'ike Dramatic Powers of the Author of Wkverley. ' \:$9 

(like all other petted people) will not what they cannot h^^ leads of course 

easily bear the exhibition of anything to an implicit deference towards cer-t 

which sacrifices any portion of their tain regularly bred doctors^ who spend 

accustomed amusement to maxims of their lives in feeling the public pulse^ 

criticism^ which they are unused to and, therefore,' not without reason. 



apply. A play which depends chiefly 
on dialogue for the unfolding of its 
plot, and for the interest which is to 
decide its fate, would be unintelligible 
to a great majority of the crowd who 
throng to a playhouse for entertain- 
ment, and yet n-om that majority it 
must receive its final, and usually its 
immediate doom. There is no appeal 
to those who listen and admire, from 
those who cannot hear, and who there- 
fore condemn. If a writer consults 



deem themselves the persons best qua- 
lified to pronounce wnat treatment is 
calculated to excite or abate it. These 
are of course the Players. In their 
way, they are as absolute as the body 
whose humours they interpret; and 
the poet would be a madman beyond 
the reach of all the virtues of Ellebore 
itself, who would disobey their de- 
crees. They are in the drama what 
your practical politicians are in Par- 
liament. Rules and maxims of criti- 



his own taste, or that of the judicious cism' they very properly disr^ard, as 
critics who may chance to sit within much as they do the meiie prompting 



hearing of his piece, he is sure to be 
reminded of the homage that he owes 
to those distant deities, who never 
speak their displeasure but in a voice 
of thunder, and to whose fiat, when 
they are verily in earnest, all below 
must bow. 

Of all the tortures of the mind, 
there is perhaps not one, (if we may 
judge from appearances,) which it is 
harder for poor human nature to bear, 
than that of a poet compelled to prune 



of the author's genius. Experience is 
their test ; and it is a word as fatal to 
the dreams of the poet as it sometimes 
is to those of the political economist. 
If audiences Usually judged with 
discrimination, and relished Uie beau- 
ties of a sterling play, perhaps the 
most enlightened critics mi^t be 
found among the first rank of players. 
Even at this day, some of our best 
performers preacn and practise what 
It is known that their taste and their 



his best conceptions into a shape, judgment condemn. An actor who 
which, to him, is all deformity, out has studied his profession, and is ar- 
of complaisance to those who posses^ dent in its pursuit, acquires an habit- 
the two formidable qualities, of being, ual power of exactly estimating the 
in his opinion, tasteless and ignorant, tempa*, the partialities, and the sym-r 
and of holding the most absolute power pathies of his audience, somewhat si- 
over the fate of his productions. It is milar to that which a public speaker 
a species of humiliation to which a attains by long practice in a popular 
great genius seldom will, and perhaps assembly. But the same cause which 
never ought to bend. And it may be makes him a safe guide to the secu- 
pronounced with certainty, that in any ring of applause, disables him in ge? 
attempt to please all parties, a drama- neral for sound criticism, when the 
tic writer, in the present state of the public before whom his habits are 



public taste, must either wholly fail, 
or produce a work which, instead of 
establishing or upholding his fame, 
would sink him below his proper and 
rnerited level. The fate of Miss Bail- 
lie's plays will long serve as a warning 



formed indulge a vitiated taste. It is 
no wonder then, that most of our 
living poets whose powers might have 
restored the departed glories of the 
English Drama, have, like Byron^ 
shrunk from the humiliating task, of 



to dramatic poets. Some of their finest thus working in chains under the di- 
passages are deformed by incidents, rection of an actor, 
introduced for no other purpose than These are discouragements which 
to gratify those who can be pleased would operate in any age or country, 
only through the eyes. Yet notwith- gifted with such audiences, play- 
standing these humblings of genius bouses, and critic players, as distin- 



against its own enlightened sense, 
these dramas failed chiefly, because 
too much still remained, wnich spoke 
only to the ears and the afi&ctions. 

The necessity of consulting the 
whims of those who come to gaze at 



guish this present time, and this spec- 
tacle-loving people. But it is also 
true, not only that we are " a nation 
of shopkeepers," but that one of the 
most valuable wares we buy and sell, 
is literary manufacture. The demand 



On the Dramatic Powers of the Author of iTaverfey^ 



160 

has increased so roucli upon the 8up« 
ply^ that although the numher of 
bouses and hands engaged in prepa- 
ring this sort of commodity for the 
market is immense^ the helief is very 
seneral^ and is becoming more so every 
day^ that its quality does not at aU 
improve as fast as its quantity en- 
higes. As buyers grow more greedy^ 
and more numerous^ articles of the 
best texture and finish must become 
prodigiously enhanced in price ; and 
thus it is demonstrable, to the satis- 
faction of the Ricardo Lecturer him- 
i»elf, that authors will be tempted to 
vest their capital in those kinds of pro- 
duction which yield the largest profit. 
Poets are no longer led a diEince after 
the bubble reputation, in which there 
is any probability that the object of 
their pursuit will burst before they 
catch it. They select those paths 
which lead to gold as well as honour, 
and as they have descended from gar- 
rets, and presume to seek the solid 
comforts of this eating, drinking, and 
sleeping world, they aaun those modes 
of acquiring glory which require much 
labour, offer much hazard, and afford 
but scanty pay. 

Whether, uierefore, the Author of 
Waverley be most actuated by the 
pride of genius, or the love of gain, or, 
^what is more probable, as wellas more 
nati^l,) shares in a fair proportion 
both these very reasonable sentiments, 
it is probable that he may deem it a 
breacn of the ordinary rulesof prudence 
to try the hazards of a regular drama. 
He now rules sovereign in our litera- 
ture, — I should say in the literature 
of this age. His supremacy is undis- 
puted and unrivalled. And his reve- 
nues are as large as his dominion is 
glorious. It is almost superfluous to 
say, that the annals of genius afford 
nothing that bears comparison with 
the mine of wealth which he has found 
in the stores of an apparently exhaust- 
less imagination. As far as we can 



CFdf. 



judge, there seems no end toiti ttii- 
es; but it is not unnatural that he 
should be reluctant to leave -those 
tracks in which he has wrooght lo 
successfully, and in which he 7s mat 
of succeeding still, for others in which 
his course must be less profitable, and 
may possibly be attended with hnmi- 
Hation and disappointment He may 
reason thus : " If I write for the stagp, 
I must either forfeit my own approba- 
tion, and trifle with my own renown, 
by adding to the number of thoee me- 
trical prodigies that offend taste and 
disgrace genius, or I shall probiUy 
fail with a public who frequent thea- 
tres for wonder, not fbr critidam,— aa 
spectators, not as hearers. At premty 
I am. rewarded for mj laboorabj 
wealth, still accumulating as I pro- 
ceed in the work of my own weietdmn, 
— the contribution of admhrwe when 
I cannot satiate. It would be mnriia 
to fling away for new and vmcattSn 
trials, mese sure and stodygaina ; nor 
have the public any title to expect Aat 
I shall abandon a pursuit wmcfa tbqr 
requite so liberally. Bat, above aU, I 
have built a fabric of £une which mil 
last for ages. I will not ctoop to the 
writing of mdodnones ; and if I 'do 
910/, — and if I write fbr the stafe^ hi 
such a style as alone can satisfy and 
suit my conceptions,— what mav he 
the fate of the Author of Wavmiiy ? 
His play, having oceu^ed hini tat 
weeks or months which ne nrif^thave 
devoted to other works that would le- 
cure him pertain pn^t and renown,— 
having passed the vexations of- buh 
nagers and committee%«-haTing un- 
dergone the stretchings and amputa- 
tions of the players,— and even havhig 
at last travelled tlurough the mlanlea 
of the rehearsals,— may yet die upon 
the very threshold of imniortality, and 
may owe its death to the r&y mnli- 
ties which ought to have num n fan* 
mortal." 

n 



i> 



1826.;] 



The Man^qfi'lVar's^Man. 



^ 161 



THE MAK*OF»WAR 8*MAN. 



Chap. XVIII. 



Though I*tn roughish in my speech, and though I^m stem in ray fFown— 

Oh ! it is not in my nature, 'tis all only irt ;~^ 
For there's one thine yet within me that is sure to put me down— 

My Country and its Music still lives in my heart. 



The fine elevated situation of Hali- 
fax Hospital was admirably adapted 
for the renovation of such a constitu- 
- tlon as that possessed by our hero. 
. Situated on tne declivity of a hill^ 
which, gradually rising, terminates 
in a battery and signal-post, — with a 
glorious arm of the ocean right in 
front, crowded with shipping and ves- 
sels of war of all shapes and sizes — 
the bustling town to the right of the 
as bustling dock-yard — and the heavy 
armed and beautiful fort of King 
George, standing in the centre, and 
breasting, like a determined line-of- 
battle broadside on, the entrance of 
everything hostile or unfriendly, — 
the whole formed, in association, as 
lovely a piece of animated landscape 
as £dward had ever beheld. The 
weather was delightfully serene and 
warm — ^the surrounding foliage luxu- 
riated in the richest verdure — while 
the powerful orb of day, hung in the 
clear blue sky, shed down his fervid 
beams with all the stead v vigour of a 
North American summer s sun. When 
it is also considered, that the principal 
doctor of the hospital and his medi- 
cal assistants, were men eminent alike 
for their skiU and humanity — that 
every indulgence was granted to its 
inmates which an' enlightened bene- 
Tolence could bestow, or a strict re- 
gard to returning health warrant — 
and that the naval allowance of pro- 
visions and cordials was actually un- 
twunded — it will excite little surprise 
that Edward recruited so amazingly 
fast, as in a very few weeks to be de- 
clared convalescent. His wounds were 
no doubt still delicate, and his body 
in a state of considerable exhaustion ; 
but then his heart was whole, his 
hopes were high, his appetite sound 
and healthy, and his strength accele- 
rating in vigour daily. He was no long- 
er, therefore, confined to his ward ; but, 
furnished with crutches, he used occa- 
sionally to swing himself along to th« 
upper end ef the hospital green, which 
was excellently furnished with bencU- 
Voi.. XIX. 



es, and there seated, basking in the 
summer's sun, with the busy and 
beautiful scene before him, would he 
ruminate on the events of other years, 
" or chat with such other of the inva- 
lids as chance led to the same quarter. 
Among these was a man — or rather 
the shell of a man— who, from his 
rude, unsocial, and unconciliating 
manners, had been dubbed by the 
very unpopular name of the Boat- 
swain's Mate. He might be between 
forty-eight and fifty years of age, 
was remarkably tall and large boned, 
with a visage peculiarly forcible and 
striking, which, added to a stern voice, 
and a keen, sharp, cynical mode of 
converse, had long made him be dread- 
ed by all the inmates of the hospital. 
Nobody knew what countryman he 
was — very few his name — and alto- 
gether there hung a sort of mystery 
over the old man, that was more dian 
sufficient to excite the curiosity of a 
less attentive spectator than Edward. 
He had early attracted Edward's no* 
tice, from his frequently observing, 
that amidst all this apparent surliness 
and misanthropy, there appeared a 
strong dash of genuine feeling and ge- 
nerosity to those he thought more iin- 
fortunate than himself, which he in 
vain endeavoured to conceal. There 
was, therefore, altogether a something 
about his person^ iA despite of his bad 
temper, that gave Edward a great de- 
sire to be better acquainted with him ; 
but hoy^ to bring tnis about he knew 
not, as any attempts he had hitherto 
made had been always repelled ¥ath 
the most surly indinerence. Conti- 
nually foiled, he had long given up 
any farther hope of an introduction to 
him, when a simple incident which 
happened one day, accomplished the 
business at once. 

Edward, whose present feebleness 
precluded him from all manner of ex- 
ercise, being a tolerable proficient on 
the fiute, was often in the habit of 
carrying along with him a small "oc* 
tave he possessed, with which, occa- 

X 



The Maii'of-WarS'Man. Choi), XVIII, 



1«2 

sionally, he often found amusement 
in the conning over one or other of 
his native airs, either lively or slow, 
according to the feeling of the mo- 
ment. One charming afternoon he 
was seated, as usual, on his remote 
bench on the hospital green, not a 
stone's throw from the edge of the 
water, when reflecting on a conversa- 
tion he had heard in the early part of 
the day, where one of the hospital re- 
tainers told another, that he had been 
down at the quay that mornhig taking 
farewell of an old friend who had sail- 
ed for Greenock, he could not avoid 
indulging in a train of thought far 
from being pleasurable. Snatching 
out his octave, while the melancholy 
idea yet floated before hhn, he almost 
unconsciously commenced the plain- 
tive and beautiful melody of Farewell 
to Lochaber. He had played a very 
short time, when he was startled by 
hearing an uncommon stem voice be- 
hind him demand, *' what devil's coun- 
try that cursed drawl came from ?" 
Suddenly halting, and turning round 
his head, he was not ill pleased when 
he beheld the bulky frame of the ve- 
teran boatswain's-mate stuck up be- 
hind him : but as he had often heard, 
that the best way to treat, and even 
win these surly people, was to serve 
them plentifully with their own sauce, 
he resolved to hazard the experiment. 
Darting, therefore, as furious a look 
at the veteran as he could muster, he 
surlily answered, " From a country 
youll never have the honour to be- 
long to." 

*' Then it must be a d— d lousy 
one, young Mr Consequence," growl- 
ed the old man, " for there's few 
countries worth speaking on but what 
I've been aboard." 

" That be d d for a lie," said 

Edward, gruffly, " for there is one 
worth speaking on would suit the likes 
of yon to a nicety. You were never 
in It, I'll he sworn, thof the sooner 
you are there the better, my heart ; — 
and I hopes, once they get you, they'll 
keep you there till all's blue." 

'* Ah, ha ! I smoke you, my saucy 
Jack," cried the veteran ; " you mean 
Botany, don't you ?" 

" What then ?" 

•'Why, that you're a d— "d unci- 
vil, ill-mannered young dog ; and were 
it not I despise to touch such a poor 
crippled reptile, I'd convince you in a 



C^Feb. 



brace of shakes, tliat you must talk to 
me in future in another manner/' 

" You'd convince me, thou shadow 
of a man !" cried Edward, seizing and 
brandishing his crutch in his left 
hand with mflnite dexterity ; — •' crip- 
pled as I am, but dare to elevate your 
arm to injure me, and 111 stave in 
these musty ribs of yours in a twink- 
ling." 

The veteran started, and fell back 
at the threat ; then surveying Edward 
from head to heel, with a countenanee 
seemingly marked with the most inve- 
terate malignity, was slowly retiring, 
when Edward, somewhat amused wiui 
the rencontre, as well as with the ease 
with which he had discomfited the 
terror of the hospital, once more laid 
hold of his octave, and struck up. The 
Ducks dang owre my.Daddie, The 
sound caught the old man's ear at 
once; he halted and looked back- 
then hesitated — and at last once more 
approached Edward. 

" So, my young Master Saucebox/' 
cried he sternly, '' you not only lau^pli 
at me yourself, but make that yellow 
piece wattle of yours laugh at me also. 
Art not afraid to afiront me so ?" 

*' As for fear, old. man," said Ed-* 
ward carelessly, '' I've had too many 
hard blows in my time to fear any- 
thing now-a-days. Besides, my old 
boy, you'll please to remember mat I 
belong, like my music, to what you 
are pleased to call the devil's coantcy, 
and I dare say you know as well. as. I 
do, that it is the devil's proper tocb^ 
tion, and all that belongs to him, 
whether men, wattles, or music, to 
laugh at all manner of mischief/' 

'^ Ha, ha, ha!" burst out. the re- 
teran, seating himself down on the 
same bench ; " Why, you're the devil's 
own bird sure enough, that's flat. Here 
am I, who have gone under a fidse cha- 
racter now nearly three months, all to 
save myself from being bored to death 
by a parcel of ignorant impertinent 
whip-jacks, brought to my marrow- 
bones in us many minutes by two tunes 
and a broadside from a young raw 
Scotchman. Well, well, I can't help 
it, for the never an inch on me could 
hold out a moment longer. — Ay, man, 
so ye're a Scotchman, it seems," oon-> 
tinned he smiling, and altering hia 
voice, *' and what part of Scotknd d'ye 
come frae, if a bouy might spier ?" 
Hey day!" cried Edward, with 



€t 



i8f(j.;3 



The Mah-^f^War's'Man. Chap, XVI 11. 



Ut 



real astonishment ; " Wbat^ art really 
a Scotchman ?" 

'' So they say, my man," said the 
veteran ; " I'm frae the devil's coun- 
try mysel atweel." 

" I m very very happy to hear it, 
mate," cried Edward, shaking the old 
man heartily by the hand. *^ May I 
inquire the name of the place where 
you come from ?" 

'^ Giff-gaffmaksgude friends," said 
the old fellow laughing. '* I put the 
question first, neighbour." 

*' And shall have the first answer, 
undoubtedly," answered Edward in 
high g^ee ; " for, thank God, I have 
no occasion for concealments. — I come 
from Edinburgh, and my name is Ed- 
ward Davies." 

'* Davies be d~d, you young wag !" 
rejoined the old man, laughing ; " who 
the devil ever heard of a Scotchman of 
the name of Davies? — Ah ha, my 
young blade^ you mustn't think to 
come over an old file like me in that 
manner. — Come now, confess it ho- 
nestly, isn't that a purser's name ?" 

'* Oho, if you begin to doubt me, 
old ship, I'm done with you at once," 
said Edward, somewhat testy. — " But 
before we begin to dispute any farther, 
do at least give me yours — giff-gaff^ 
you know, as you said yourself." 

*' I meant no offence, young man," 
said the veteran, " and shall certain- 
ly keep my word to you, although it 
raises painful regrets within me — I 
entered the service also in Edinburgh, 
but my native place was Roslin. — D'ye 
know that little place V 

" Know it, mate, — I believe few 
better ; ay, and its chapel and castle 
too— the bonny bleachfield at the foot 
of the brae — the Esk that washes its 
castle wa's — and Dryden, and Haw- 
thornden, and Lasswade, and Dal- 
keith, and Inveresk, and Musselburgh, 
and the sea" 

" Truce, truce," cried the old man, 
*' you've gone far enough to make a 
Turk believe. I see you are a good 
sterling dollar — though there are too 
many counterfeits now-a-days." 

'- Ay, but, my good old fellow, your 
name if you please ?" asked Edward. 
The old man, after considerable he- 
sitation, and a look of peculiar signi- 
ficance, answered '^ My name for the 
present, is Jack Scizzey." 

" A purser's, of course ?" said Ed- 
ward. 
The old man nodd«d assent ; and 



added, while a faint smile crossed his 
pallid cheek, '^ Belike, Ned, there was 
mighty good reasons for my adopting 
it, and the strange character you've 
knocked me out of; but what then } 
what objections have you to it ? I'm 
certain there are as foolish surnames 
in England." 

" Oh, that's no doubt true, old 
ship," said Edward ; " but the Eng- 
lish^ you know, are like no other peo- 
ple on the face of the earth, bemg, 
like the contents of their dock-yards^ 
a medley of all sorts — As to what you 
were saying of my objections to your 
present name, why, I own I have no 
very material ones ; — and yet Scizzey, 
Scizzey — why, that's the cant in Edin- 
burgh for a sixpence." 

" I know it is, my brave lad," re- 
plied the old man, '^ and it was prin- 
cipally to keep me in mind of that 
dear quarter tnat I chose it. — Edin- 
burgh !" continued he, becoming high- 
ly affected, " Lord help me, what 
would I not now give to be within 
hail of old St Giles's — or, rather, to 
be outside of the Grange-toll, on my 
way to the old ruins ! Then, my dear 
fellow, you'd see whether these old 
shattered trotters of mine, hard-up as 
they are now, wouldn't do their duty. 
— But why do I talk nonsense, since 
that is now impossible ; at least," add- 
ed the old man, with a deep sigh, '^ it 
is more than poor old Jack expects. 
But God's will be done ; — if it is his 
good pleasure that this old weather- 
beaten hulk shall founder and rot in 
a foreign land, who shall say him nay. 
Yet oh, Davies, it is a sad sad thought, 
and wrings this withered heart to 
splinters ! D'ye know, my dear boy, 
that I'll be the first of my family, for 
scores of generations, whose carcase 
will miss muster in the little beautiful 
church-yard yonder that crowns the 
top of the wooded knoll." 

" Come, come, Jack," said Edward, 
eagerly interrupting the old man on a 
subject which he saw gave him pain, 
" you get quite womanish now, piping 
in that silly manner ; and did I not 
know how weak you are at present I'd 
hardly excuse you. But I've heard 
you were at one time a great deal 
worse — so bad, indeed, that old Jec- 
tionbag told me he thought you'd have 
kicked the bucket. You roust be sen- 
sible, for I see it myself, how much 
you've improved everyway lately ; so' 
why mayn't you not get on again, fee- 



The Man^of' Wars-Man. Chap. XVIII. 



164 

ing> as one may say, you've already 
doubled the Cape. Cheer up then, ray 
old heart, and never say die! Tou 
may yet get stout again, and go home 
and see Auld Reikie along with me. 
You see I'm determined not to knock 
under; for certainly I do think the 
war cannot last for ever." 

*' Ay, ay, my dear fellow," said the 
veteran, " you may say it, for you are 
young, and have the weather-gage of 
me by some twenty years or better ; 
but it's more than I expect, my lad, 
that's all. Howsomever, I thank you 
kindly for your good wishes ; they 
are a balm to this old heart of mine, 
and come, like music, with a gentle- 
ness over it, to which it hasn't been 
accustomed this many a day. — But 
seriously, Ned, do you really hope to 
see Scotland again ?" 

" Do I, my old blade !" cried Ed- 
ward, " assuredly I do; unless, to be 
sure, I get a smasher on the road, and 
then you know Scotland's nothing to 
me, and I am nothing to Scotland. 
God help us, my good soul, it is as 
well to live in hope as die in despair. 
— But that's not what we were talk- 
ing on. Come now. Jack, oblige me 
honestly with your real name, for 
Scizzey, you know, it can't be." 

" Well, Ned, as we're alone I will. 
What wouldst think of Adams?" 

" Why, my heart," cried Edward, 
*' I'd think it a very respectable sur- 
name of the country you've hailed for. 
But I say. Jack, if it's a fair question, 
what made you douce it? Did you 
cut for. it ? 

The old man hesitated answering 
for a moment — then seizing Edward's 
hand, he replied, " Yes, Davies, I 
will trust you — I will give a vent to 
feelings which I've concealed for years 
from every one — which I've sheltered 
under a false name and a false charac- 
ter — and which I must still continue 
to do to every one but you. May I 
depend upon you? Give me your 
word you'll not betray me." 

^' I do most solemnly. Jack," said 
Edward, gravely, *^ and am only sorry 
you should think it necessary.' 

^' Well, well, Ned, have done, have 
done," cried the old man. " I did 
run, my lad, and the broad R has 
stood against the name of poor old 
Adams the matter now of between 
fourteen and fifteen years. At the 
time I cut, Ned, there was due me 
better than some eighteen monUis' pay 



HFeb-: 



as captain of the forecastle, bendei a • 
good round sum of prize money^ and 
a stock of clothes I wouldn't haine 
given for the best fifty guineas that 
ever was coined — ^but wnat then> I zan 
for my life." 

'^ Your life, Adams !" cried the as- 
tonished Edward ; '^ what hadst done 
to forfeit your life ?" 

'^ Nothing I was ever ashamed to 
think of, even when alone/' said the 
old man ; then added in a half whis-* 
per, — " You must know I was one of 
the few who had the pluck, at the 
risk of fame, fortune, and l^e itself^ 
to plant that glorious tree of indispu- 
table rights, the fruits of which the 
whole fieet throughout the world are 
this day reaping.' 

^' And yet you ran for your life ?" 
cried Edward. '^ Was it in danger ?" 
^' Why not me as weU as more 
innocent men," said the old man^ 
*' who fell a sacrifice to the cold- 
blooded revenge of an interested fac- 
tion ? I am as certain I would have 
gone for it as I am now speaking." 

*' Fourteen or fifteen years sgo— 
certain of going for it — ^innocent moi/' 
said Edward to himself, calculating 
mentally. — " Why, my dear fellow^ 
continued he aloud, *' you must al- 
lude to the Mutiny of the Fleet—" 

'' Rather," said the old man« sharp- 
ly interrupting him, ^^ to the redrew 
of the grievances, the notorious grie- 
vances of the Fleet" 

" Well, well, my old bladej," cried 
Edward, " I shan't fall out with joa 
about a name. One caUs it a mutiny^ 
the great mutiny, and so forth ; ano- 
ther simply a redress of grievanoes» 
or, as you say, notorious grievances. 
Now which of you is right I netther 
know nor care. It's a business, I must 
say, I think happily over ; for certain- 
ly, certainly, it cost many a poor^ ig- 
norant, simple soul his life,— whue 
those who most, richly deserved it, 
eluded the kinch, and escaped." 

'^ I thank you for the compliment," 
said the old man, testily ; " but yoor 
ignorance excuses you, for vou' speak 
boldly without knowledge.' 

" Why, my old blade," cried Ed- 
ward, " mayhap I may ; for I confess 
I never yet heard an honest ▲Cv 
COUNT of the matter — ^merely bits of 
snatches here and there, told ns noir 
and then by the Captain's steward, 
who said he was a boy on board the 
Sandwich, attending the gon-xoon* 



I 



1836.3 



The M(tn^qf*Wars^Man. CUp.XlX^ 



at the time the story happened. He's 
an old fellow now/ 

'^ I knew it, I knew it/' said the 
old veteran, brightening up; — " I 
knew you had never hefud anythiug 
like THE TRUTH of tho story." 

*' Well, well, mate," said Edward, 
gvasping his crutch, '^ to put an end 
at once to all botheration, — for you 
see it is time we were on the move, — 
will you favour me with your account 
of the matter ? I would like nothing 
better ; and you may depend upon my 
making no improper use of anything 
you say." 

'' Well, I don't care although I 
should," said the old man. " I will 
rake up my memory to-night as soon 
as I turn in, and to-aiorrow, if the 



16« 

wieatber is iayourable, I will meet you 
here at the same hour.— But, God 
help me, I must no longer be Jack 
Adams^ but the surly brute of an old 
tellow Jack Scizzey.— *Grood niffht, 
Ned j I can make quicker way tnan 
you, and will reach the house long 
before you. Don't be surprised if you 
should catch me on your arrival in a 
brawl ; 'tis a character I must keep up 
now so long as I am here, and, accord* 
ing to circumstances, probaUy here* 
after. ILswever, I'll explain we ret« 
son of that to-morrow, and other 
things which may possibly surprise 
you, in a short bit of an account of 
what I myself have encountered in my 
voyage through life." 



Chap. XIX. 

Oh, whatever you do, never flinch from your King, 

From your Country, your parents, and all 
The best blessings which from honest duty do spring, 

To join in a Mutinous brawl :— 
For mind me, my mates, — and I say it in sooth. 

To avert from you every dread evil,— 
That the first is the way of high honour and truth* 

But the last is the road to the devil ! 



Next day, the weather proving 
fine, Edward was seated on the ap- 
pointed bench punctual to a moment ; 
and he had sat no long time when he 
beheld the tall gaunt form of Adams 
coming striding towards him. The 
salutations of the day being over,— 

" I see very well, Ned, ' said the 
veteran, addressing him, '^ that I have 
screwed your curiosity up to a far 
higher pitch than, I doubt me, there 
was any occasion for, and I sincerely 
pray Grod you mayn't be disappointed. 
I have no marvels, mind me, to give 
you ; nor, from beginning to end, is 
there a single hobgoblin or merry- 
andrew to be found to excite your in- 
terest. It is all plain simple narra- 
tive ; such homely gear, indeed, that 
I'm afraid, before I get through it, 
you'll think botU me and my story 
alike exceedingly dull, and send us a- 
packing to the aeviL" 

" Oh, never fear. Jack," said Ed- 
ward, '^ no matter-of-fact story can 
be absolutely dull, however phdnly 
told — particularly such an interesting 
one as you're alluding to. On the 
contrary, I assure you, I antidpate a 
vast deal of pleasure^ were it no more 



than in the simple comparing of your 
way of it with the morsels n»e and 
there which I've already so often 
heard." 

'' Well, weU, Ned," returned the 
veteran, '^ I'm glad you are content 
to. hear it in any shape. Ill do my 
best to please you, and I hope you'll 
accept the good will for the deed; I 
was never a great fist at tdlitig of 
stories, even in my prime, and I 
much doubt me I am too oM to im** 
prove now. However, as I hate all 
apology-making, here's at it j — ^be so 
good as interrupt me as seldon^ as you 
can, lest you snould break the yam, 
tough though it be, and I'll give you 
old Jack's word for it, that if he 
don't please you, at least he will not 
detain you." 

" Enough, my dear fellow," said 
Edward ; '^ begin, begin, for I'm all 
impatience." 

" Then listen," said the veteran, 
" to what you may caU, in shore Hn* 
go, the 

*' Story or Jack Asams. 

*^ I was bom in Roslin, as I told 
you before, and entered the service at 



The Man^J' War's Man. Chap. XJX. 



Edinburgh^ by leapine on boaord of a 
boat^ then patroling the streets on a 
wheeled carriage, nicely bedizened 
with flags^ and flashy Jacks^ in rib- 
boned hats^ and music^ and plenty of 
stuffy and the devil knows all what. 
I don't remember what year it was — 
— ^noT does- it matter — I was a care- 
less^ merry^ youngish fellow at that 
time^ fiilly taller than I am now^ and 
had what my grandmother used to call 
a bee in my bonnet. I recollect I poc- 
keted the thirty guineas of, bounty 
with a vast deal of pleasure, — com- 
menced gentleman in a trice — car- 
ried on like a scapegrace while it last- 
ed — drank the most of it ; was rob- 
bed of the rest ; and was then hurri- 
ed on board the Martin tender, lying 
in Leith Roads, in a state something 
between the drunkard and the mad- 
man. Well, here I bad ample leisure 
to come to my senses, while waiting 
for the completion of our live cargo, 
which was no sooner done, than we 
sailed for the Nore, and were bun- 
dled onboard of the Guar do. As I ha- 
ted to be inactive, I soon grew tired 
of a guard-ship and volunteered as 
quickly as possible ; so that before 
you'd nave said Jack Robinson, there 
was I in (the West Indies a-fighting 
with the Blackamoors, sometimes on 
shore, sometimes on board, along 
with Sir John Jervis, — ^he, I mean, we 
now call Earl St Vincent. Well, we 
had strange doings there for a great 
length of time, and as I was young, 
and stout, and healthy, and lived like 
a perfect fighting-cock, faith I can't 
say but I passed the best part of a 
couple of years there quite to my 
heart's wish. But this was too good 
to last for ever. We were ordered 
home, and were hardly in sight of 
St Hden's, when we were drafted on 
boa^d the Queen Charlotte, and in 
her I fought out the 1st of June. I 
was on board of her during all the 
riot, and only left her to come to the 
Nore, by order of my oflScers — ^but 
more of this anon. — Well, time wore 
on — ^and troublesome times they were 
— ^for Boney was always a-talking of 
invading England, and kept us eter- 
nally on the alert. I assure you, 
my lad, the Channel in those days 
was the devil's own corner for bustle 
and business, and a turn in for a 
whole watch, was a thing which oc- 
curred but seldom. However, we 



CFeS. 



had always plenty of priie-iiioiWT ; 
for thougn we were seldom paid hf 
our agents, by dint of our papers we 
used to lay Moses and his brother 
smouches under a constant oontribn« 
tion, and so contrived to have a litde 
pleasure when we had the opportuni- 
ty. But I'm wandering to leeward-— 
Where was I } — Oh, ay, I reooUect* 
— Well, by this time Id beeil dub- 
bed A. B. with about ninepence half- 
penny a-day, and stationed on the fine* 
castle '' 

^' I beg your pardon, matey," said 
Edward, interrupting him, '^ but 
you're away yet. — We'll take your 
promotion and all that for granted. 
Rather tell me at what time you first 
observed any symptoms of dissatis- 
faction among the crew of the Char- 
lotte — ^because, stationed as you were 
on the forecastle, and messing choak 
forward in the nose of her, you must 
have been very early apprised of any- 
thing of the land." 

'^ True, my lad, true," replied 
Adams ; '* but before I go any far- 
ther, Aiody just bring me up with a 
round turn, the same as you've done 
now, my boy, whenever I'm inclined 
to go off my regular course.— > Well, 
to answer your question in few words, 
I think, as far as my memory serves 
me, it was about the end of 1796 I 
first saw any of them printed fbar, 
as came from the shore, y^ the httUb 
of any of my shipmates. Who sent 
them, or who the devil made them, I 
neither knows nor cares — neither does 
it matter — certain it is, that not only 
our ship, but the whole fleet, received 
large lots of tham every other day ; 
and I haven't a doubt but they had s 
main hand in kicking up all the riot 
that' afterwards happened. I recollect 
well enough of reaaihg two or three of 
'era — ^but I soon got tired, for they 
told me nothing but what I already 
knew — though how to better myself 
I knew not — ^for as for kicking against 
the very thing that prickled me, why 
you know that was all in my eye." 

*' If you remember. Jack, * said 
Edward, " I'd like to know what 
these printed affairs spoke about." 

'^ Everything, [matey," replied the 
veteran ; *^ they generally commen- 
ced with telling what brave hardy 
fellows we were — how the country 
adored us— and such other blarney. 
Then out came what a d — d shame 



1826.;] 



The Man^qf' Wars Man. Chap. XIX. 



it was that we had so little pay, when- 
the soldiers, who did nothing, were 
getting so and so— -what a pity it was 
that a parcel of rascals, such as our 
officers were, should fatten and grow 
rich, by cheating us out of the allow- 
ance given us by our Idag and coun- 
try — that while the soldiers got fur- 
loughs to go to the far end of the 
kingdom, to see their wives and fami- 
lies, we were cooped up on board like 
a parcel of convicts ; or at most, al- 
lowed a twenty-four hours' liberty- 
ticket to go on shore, while all the 
soldiers had orders to look after us, 
and even got three guineas reward 
for nabbing us when we overstretch- 
ed the time. — This and such like 
everyday stuff, was the eternal change 
they rung — shifted a little here and 
there — but still ending in the same 
chime. Then, having set all your 
abominations in proper ship-shape 
before you, they generally tolled in 
with the usual blustering swagger 
of a long line-of-battle of questions, 
such as the asking us ' If we were 
men ? ' — As that could hardly be Mkl^ 
ed, they then asked, / Why we bent 
under, or allowed of such tyrannical 
doings ? Had we not made our ene- 
mies tremble, and were not all our 
enemies who sought to make us, free- 
born Englishmen and Britains, slaves ?' 
— and the %hole would conclude with 
a strange vgm^ple exhortation, ge- 
nerally taken from a song, such as — 
' Now's the day and now's the hour !* 
— ^ Britons strike home !' — ^and such 
like. — Pshaw ! I ever held them to be 
d— d mischievous trumpery ;«though 
I must confess 'twas not the case with 
the greater part of my shipmates, for 
they first set them all a-reading, and 
then they set them all a-grumbling 
— seeing they told many of 'em of 
rights they as yet knew nothing 
about — and laughed and sneered at 
the simplicity of men who thought 
themselves tne cleverest fellows on 
God Almighty's waters.*' 

"Ah, but, harkye, ray brave fel- 
low," said Edward, '^ you must ac- 
knowledge, now, that there was a 
strong spice of truth in this nonsense. 
I have often heard say that there was 
ample cause for the riot that took 
place." 

" Why no one will dispute that, 
my lad," said the old man, '^ who has 
a particle of common sense in his 
skull. We had various matters to 



15T 

complain of, and they were 'often 
complained of— but of what use was 
it, or what good did it do?— You 
were certain, by way of redress, to i)e 
either hooted off the quarter-deck, 
laughed to scorn, or receive a good 
drubbing ; and, in good sooth, my 
lad, I can't say I was ever patriot 
enough to volunteer to undergo such 
a discipline. — For instance now, for 
simple, common, everyday treatment, 
I can't say I ever could relish Uie 
being kicked for nothing by a mere 
boy, escaped from the school or the 
nursery, or even to be rope's-ended 
by the hobbledehoy hands of a young 
raw master's mate — far less did I re- 
lish the almost constant startings, 
running of gauntlets, playing of 
dumb-bells, and other ingenious arts 
of tormenting, which were then in 
fashion ; and as for the almost daily 
practice of flogging, and particularly 
the too common one of keel-hauling, 
it shocked the whole fleet, and com- 
pletely put my pipe out. D — n me. 
it was using men worse than the 
beasts that perish. As for our grub 
again, we had, no doubt, what the 
Purser called full twelve ounces to 
the pound of either flour or bread ; — 
four ounces being kept back, he said, 
for the necessary waste attending the 
doling it out. — ^But Grod knows what 
he called his ounce — I believe it was 
one invented by himself — as it wasn't 
to be discovered in ever a Dilworth of 
the kingdom. And then for his li- 
quor measures, why they were in the 
self-same mess ; and, through the 
whole fleet, were larger or smaller 
just as the Purser loved money, or 
had a lid'gcr or smaller particle of con« 
science about him^ Now, no doubt, 
the like of these things made us surly, 
and at times growl at him ; but still 
you know he could very flatly tell lis, 
we had our regular pound allowed us 
by Government, as well as our regular 
pint of grog ; and why, if we wanted 
any more, we must apply to Govern- 
ment for it, not to him, for he could 
do nothing for us. The Captain and 
first Lieutenant sounded the same 
chime — ay. and sometimes accompa- 
nied it with a d — d good thrashing, 
by way of nfcnding the matter. Be- 
sides all this, we had to growl, and we 
did growl, at several other minor mat- 
ters, which all tended to impoverish 
us, poor devils, while it enriched no 
one but the Captain, the Purser, and 



M. 



168 The Mah'-of-WarS' 

the ihip's agent This was thf irre- 
gular method they had at that time 
of paying ship's oompanies their wa- 
ges, sometimes allowing three^ four, 
and if out of the land^ even seven 
years to run, before they received a 
cross of pay due them. This, of 
course, you know, was all in the Pur- 
ser's favour — the men were compelled 
to take slops— and if they were great 
wearers — ^why when pay-day came 
they were often in the Purser's debt. 
This, however, as you mav guess, 
did not occur often. Then there was 
no such thing as short allowance mo- 
ney—and if your grog was stopped, 
whether for punishment or sickness, 
it was never afterwards accounted for. 
—But the best of all was, that were 
you wounded, or in such bad health, 
as to be compelled to go to the hospi- 
tal, you got no pay from the hour of 
leaving the ship until you was muster- 
ed again, and entered on her books by 
the Clerk of the Cheque. All these 
were grounds— and devilish good ones, 
for many bickerings, squabblings, and 
heart-burnings — but still, except a 
brush now and then, things went on 
pretty fairly until these printed gear 
came on board, and set all hands a- 
spouting about rights and privileges. 
Then there was nothing but the de- 
vil to pay ;— meetings, and commit- 
tees, and delegates got quite in fash- 
ion ; and really ana truly it was im- 
possible for a rcllow with the spirit of 
a cockle to stand neutral on the occa- 
sion. As I told you before, I cared 
little about those printed gear, because 
they told me nothing but what I al- 
ready knew — but 'twas not' the case 
with my shipmates — they were com- 
pletely converted by them, and were 
very generally seized with the mania 
of reform ; of course the petitions for 
redress to the officers were multiplied 
out of number, and, as usual, the pe- 
titioners were scouted or kicked for 
their pains. — Now, ray dear soul, I 
believe 1 am stating the matter as 
fairly as a poor old fellow can do, 
when I frankly say, that our officers 
did wrong in treating the ships' 
companies in such a lousy manner, 
when they came respectfully forward 
and petitioned for a redress of some 
of these grievances ; and I will be 
also bold to say, that in my conscience 
I think it was this unkind and even 
barbarous treatment, combined with 
the paltry pay, and other disagreeable 



^Man. Chap. XIX. {Teb. 

comparisons between than and tlie 
military which these pdnted gear pcit 
into their heads, that drove disagree- 
ments to such a height^ or first gave us 
the idea of poshing matters to a head 
at all risks in the manner we did.-^ 
Well, my lad^ finding we could make 
nothing but abuse and ill usage out of 
our own officers, we resolved to atf adc 
their betters, and accordingly sent 
about a dozen of nameless petiticms 
to the post-house, some to one Ral 
and some to anoUier, not fbrgetting 
old Ist of June, nor the Lords Admi- 
rals themselves. But being in no 
one's name, d'ye see, they cared no- 
thing about them, and we were as 
wise as ever. Well, on this we had 
a meeting on the main deck, (for bjr 
this time, my lad, we cared not a 
straw for our officers, any more than 
they did for us,) when I got up and 
spouted a while as well as I oonld, 
telling them, 'twas all in iny eye the 
sending ashore such half-done woik, 
— that if thev wihhed any attention 
to be paid to their demands, there was 
nothing like fair, even-down thump 
work for it — and that if they would 
take my way on't, they shoud (mce 
more make out the petitions, get 
them signed in the ronnd-romn 
fashion, and send ibem off to die 
Admiral of the fleet at Q|ice» and 
such other nabs as they tm>Wit pro- 
per, telling them pliBnpl^ and plain- 
ly, that if they wouldn t comply with 
our demands, we wouldn't comply 
with theirs. Well, all this was agreed 
to, and I was appointed one of a oom« ' 
mittee that was to see it done ; so that 
the moment the petitions were ready 
and signed by a number of. our first- 
rate hands, we went through thefieet 
and got all to sign them in the same 
manner, then dispatched them atihore. 
But, God bless you, what a devil of a 
nitty they did kick up ! — ^why, there 
was nothing but yard-arms, and 
shooting, and walking the plank spo« 
ken of. Every rumour that came 
from the shore that day was worse 
than the other ; and upon my sool, 
Ned, I will candidly confess to TOU 
that I did not altogether lie on a bed 
of roses that night. Next day, while 
we were considering what was to be 
done, who should burst in upon ns 
but old Lock, our captain, absohitelT 
foaming with rage. He abused ns afl 
in the most violent manner, strack 
all around him, and behaved ao-tiko 

V2 



I 



y 



\ 



IS26J2 r/*<? Man-of^ Wars- 

a niadman, that we manned a boat, 
and turned him ashore, there to come 
to his senses at leisure. Well, we 
were still waiting very patiently for 
an answer of some one kind or other, 
when who should board us but that 
madcap of an old woman. Admiral 
Gardner, — a fellow that never did 
anything worth mentioning, — and he 
made matters a great deal worse." 

" Pshaw, pshaw, mate," loudly in- 
terrupted Edward, *' that will never 
go down. Admiral Gardner was never 
an old woman in his born life — but 
the very reverse. Doesn't think, my 
old boy, but I've heard before now of 
the old Queen he was aboard on ? Ay, 
that I have, and often, matey ; — and, 
more than that, every one as spoke of 
her always said and swore, that she 
played tne best stick on the first of 
June of the whole fleet, not excepting 
your great Charlotte herself." 

" Why, who the devil disputes that, 
Davies ?" cried the old man with eager- 
ness. — *^ I know as well as any one 
that the old Queen fought on that 
glorious day like a very devil, and 
went through and through the French 
lin:^ iikc a flaming evil spirit. But 
what then, my lad ? — You'll please 
to recollect, that she wasn't fought on 
that occasion by Admiral Gardner — 
no, nor ever a Gardner in the fleet. It 
was honest old Hutt that fought her 
-T-as fine a fellow as ever trod a quar- 
ter-deck — and he lost both leg and 
thigh on the occasion, and died, brave 
heart, coming home. — No, no, Davies, 
depend on't that I tell you truth when 
I say, that little credit goes to the Ad- 
miral for that day's work, as well as 
many others who shall be nameless." 
" Well, well. Jack," continued Ed- 
ward, '' all that may be true. But as 
to Captain Hutt, you know, that was 
his bad luck, poor fellow, and no fault 
of tlie Admiral's ; for certainly, lad, 
that doesn't make out yet what vou 
say." 

" Bah, d — n him, I do not like him, 
that's flat !" cried the old man impa- 
tiently ; — " he's a proud, haughty, 
fiery hothead ! — He has no patience 
in the world, and, when once fairly 
roui?ed, will neither listen to rhyme 
nor reason, but right or wrong, up 
fist and down with you. — Blast him ! 
— I'll not forget in a hurry what a de- 
vilish good thrashing he served roe 
out one day I wcr^ keeping holiday 
Vol. XIX. 



Man. Chap, XIX. 169 

on board his hooker^ and all for a mere 
nothing." 

*' Oni ! — JacK, I see it now, my 
hearty," cried Edward smiling.; ''and 
so he gave you a thrashing, did he ? 
— Ah well, that makes th^ matter 
somewhat clearer than mud, and suf- 
ficiently accounts for your very hand- 
some epithet. — You may now pro- 
ceed — pray how did he come to make 
matters worse ?" 

*' Why, you must know, my dear 
fellow," continued the old man, some- 
what mortified, " that by way of strik- 
ing a salutary terror into these gentry, 
we had lashed a block on the yard's arm, 
and rove a rope through it, which was 
made fast to the fore rigging. On 
seeing this he lost temper completely, 
and cursed and swore, and strutted 
and capered about the deck like a mon- 
key in a china shop. — ' Whew ! for 
himself, he didn't give a single d — n 
for the whole of us — ^he woidd stand 
under the yard-arm rope and defy us 
all — ^^Ve sailors ! — that was a lie-^we 
were a parcel of d — d lubberly lousy 
tailors — mutinous scoundrels, that de- 
served to be sabred into dog's-meat,* 
— and in this manner he went on abu- 
sing us until his wind failed him. 
This was rather overdoing the thing ; 
and accordingly some of our spinks 
certainly did return his fire with lan- 
guage of a similar description. I stood 
silent, watching the progress of this 
war of words ; at last, apprehensive of 
the worst of consequences, I went up 
to the Admiral, and taking him by the 
hand, I requested that he would be so 
good as withdraw while there was any- 
thing like good manners remaining. 
I then conducted him to the gangway, 
and saw him into his boat, which ne 
entered amid the hootings andhissings 
of the whole ship's company. Now, 
would you believe it, this very man 
had been ordered on board for the pur- 
pose of giving us our answer— and cer- 
tainly a pretty answer we had to ex- 
pect which, was begun in such elegant 
language. No time was therefore lost, 
and the signal for a council of delegate* 
was immediately hoisted. They came 
directly on board and had a consulta- 
tion, when it was determined to adopt 
such measures as should secure the de- 
legates from any surprise. I was there- 
fore dispatched to tne Admiral's ship, 
the Royal George, with orders from 
the council to naul down the Admi« 



no 

ral's flag> and hoist the red flag in its 
stead—Seing a signal for every ship to 
Send a hoat manned and armed for 
the protection of the court of delegates 
on hoard the Queen Charlotte. The 
Captain of the Rojral Greorge, indeed, 
did make some resistance to this, and 
sWore he. would he d — d ere such a 
flag should be hoisted without the Ad- 
miral's permission ; but his objections 
were soon over-ruled, and the flag was 
hoisted. While I staid there a-telling 
of Uiem how Gardner had behaved on 
"board the Charlotte, who should come 
alongside but his Lordship himself 
along with Admiral Pole — a real good 
fellow — to demand, forsooth, what 
was the meaning of the red flag, which 
was flying at the fore-topmast head ? 
— He had asked the question three 
times without a single soul giving him 
a word of answer ; when at last a fel- 
low mustering up courage, went for- 
ward to the gangway, and told his 
Lordship the ship's company wished 
to have nothing to say to him ; but as 
for Admiral Pole, if he chose to step 
on board, the ship's company would 
gladly hear what ne had to tell them. 
The good fellow immediately com- 
plied, and the whole business was put 
to rights in a twinkling. The moment 
he came on board, and all hands ga- 
thered round him, he mildly said, 
' What do you mean, my lads^ by 
hoisting of signals now, when Admi- 
ral Gardner has already told you that 
your petition is accepted and. will be 
complied with ?' 

*' 'My Lord,' replied oneof thequar- 
ternlasters, ' we heard a very different 
story, now, of his Lordship's beha- 
viour on board the Charlotte ; — it was 
told us by one of the delegates now 
on board, who I dare say will gladly 
earry any message your Lordship may 
be pleased to give him to the council^ 
now assembled on board tl^at ship.' 

'' 'Ah well, where is he? — send him 
to me directly/ said his Lordship. 

*' Well, of course you know, I was 
bundled forward ; and after answering 
various questions as to his Lordship's 
behaviour on board the Queen Char- 
lotte, which r did as respectfully as I 
could, he told me in positive terms, 
to assure the council of delegates the 
moment I went on boards that, on his 
honour as an officer and a gentleman, 
the petition was accepted, and would 
be complied with without delay. 
' Thank you, thank you, my Lord^* 



The Man-of- Wari-Man. Chap. XIX. 



EFeV. 



et 



cried I, graspine the good toulliy the 
hand, which I shook heartily^ I autnjs 
you. ' This is indeed the best nevli 
we've had these many mouths ; and 
I've no doubt will allay all our iIl-naF« 
ture and restore us to a good under- 
standing again. I'll go on board di« 
rectly, my Lord, dnd execute JWU( 
commission before the council famki 
up. — Signalman, bring me a white 
flag instantly.' , 

" ' What are you g<^i)^liq dd^th a 
white flag; my good fellow?' inqaked' 
his Lordship. 

'' ' Why, my Lord,' cried I, ' I'm 
so d — d happy, that I shall not only 
carry a white flag, but I believe I shaft 
have a band of mUsic with me also, 
to do honour to your Lordship's mes^ 
sage.— Tomlins, cried I to tite qiiar- 
termasiter who had first spoken^ * mnp- 
ter me up your band if yon pbase— 
by Jupiter, this is not an ordinary oe« 
casion.* ' 

'^ ' You are a strange feUow,' said 
the Admiral, smiling, ' but! hope 
you'll not forget what I've told yon ^ 

" ' Never fear, my Lord,' ciud I, 

* it will give to6 much pleasure to he 
easily forgotten.' 

" ' Do then hasten on board, like a 
good boy, while your what-d'ye^ieall<^ 
it is sitting,' said his Loidship i— 

* for you know the sooner a sto^f of 
this kind is settled''tis so mndi- th^ 
better.' 

" I gave his Lordship a sea bow,'and 
he retired to his boat, and rowed, off 
" ' Now come, my jolly hearta,' 
cried I, ' who will volunteer to go on 
board the Charlotte with me wiu the 
happy news } They shdl haye plen^ 
of fun and oceans of ^rog. By the 
Lord, I'm half crazy with joy — so let 
ine be oflp. — Come, TomHns; d-r-niit| 
at least you must go— for yon got fte 
message as well as I. — Come, my jolly 
warblers, are you all in there-^Ay, 
that's right— Come, let's aboard, old 
boy.' 

" ' Shall I haul down the red; ^ 
Adams }* inquired the signalman* 

" ' No, no, my lad,' said I, ' yod 
had better wait the council's (»aaa 
about that affair. Ill tell you what^ 
I'll ask about it as soon's I set oil 
board, and if you are to haul it dowo/ 
you'll know by the union being h&sX 
oh the fore-yard's-arm rope. D— 4i 
me, better to hang the union, thad- 
one of its jolly subjects.— -Come along^ 
Tomlins.' 



i«2B.;3 



TV/r Man-of'- Ifars-Man. Chap. XIX. 



171 



" ' What shidl we strike up, Adams ?* 
said' the Master of the Band^ address^^ 
ing me after we were in the boat. 

'* ' Eh ?' cried I, busily employed 
bending on the white flag to the boat's 
hook, * d — ^n me if I know. Hartley— 
you ought to be the best judge— But 
I say, give us none of your nationals 
—that's a d— d Jerry-Sneak way of 
going to work, and not like true blues 
at all. — rU tell you what, my heart, 
give us. Hey, my blue bonnets, jump 
over the Border /—it is lively— rin my 
opinion it is applicable —and it will 
give no offence to the radicals. So 
strike up, my hearts, and stretch out> 
my lads, and let us on board.' 

'^ The band struck up, the white flag 
was elevated, and thus we^rowed to 
the Queen, to the utter astonishment 
of the armed boats which by this 
time now surrounded her. 

'^ ^ Hilloah, Adams, why what's the 
matter ?* roared a hundred voices. 

" ' Good news, my happy hfda,' cried 
I, ' glorious news, boys !— but I've 
only time to say, our petition is ae-^ 
cepted by the Lords Admirals ;' and 
I immediately ran up the side, still 
carrying my standard. Ordering the 
band to the quarter-deck, I whispered 
into Hartley's ear to strike up that 
good old antijacobin, ' Up and waur 
them a', tVillie /'—while 1 sent in to 
the council to announce my arrival 
With a message from authority. The 
band immediately did so, and I march- 
ed at their head round the whole 
three decks, refusing to answer a sin- 
gle question, and contriving it so that 
I should make my halt at the cabin 
door, where the council of delegates 
was still deliberating. The doctr being 
thrown open, I immediately entered, 
taking the old quarter-master along 
with me. 

" * What is the matt«r, Adams .^.' said 
Jack- Morris, who was sitting as Pre- 
sident, — ' have you got any good 
news for us that you make all this 
hubbub ?' 

" ' Master President,' replied I, ' as. 
I take it, I've got glorious news to tell 
to you and this honourable meeting. 
Admiral Pole, on the quarter-deck of 
the George, has pledged his honour 
to you, before me and this old man 
I've brought with me to back my as- 
sertion, besides hundreds of others on 
board, that the Lords Admirals have 
accepted your petition, and that every 



desaaAd would be complied with with- 
out a moment's delay/ 

" ^ I won't believe a word of all that 
there story," cried Tom Allen of the 
Mars. ' If it was true, Mr President, 
why didn't Pole come here himself 
witn the news? D—n me, he knew 
we were assembled, and it was the 
least thing he could have done, in my 
opinion. — For my part, I think he has 
been gammoning Adams.' 

" * For shame, Allen,' cried 1, * to 
suppose for a moment that a gentle- 
man like Pole would utter a deliberate 
falsehood. — Mr President, the person 
appointed to bring you the intelli- 
gence from the proper authorities, 
was no other than the redoubted Ad- ' 
miral Gardner ; — at least so said Ad-, 
miral Pole in all our hearings, and 
him I will believe, let Tom say what 
he will ; — and how Gardner deliver- 
ed his message, or rather what a pret- 
ty kettle of fish he made on't, I sup- 
pose you'll all have heard on. What 
I've told you, Mr President, I assure 
you honestly is truth, for the verifica- 
tion of whicn I not only appeal to my 
worthy old ship *here, but to three- 
parts of the ship's company of the 
George— and as for his gammoning 
me, I've the conceit to thiijkk so high- 
ly of myself, that I believe I'd be 
gammoned by neither Admiral Pole 
nor Tom Allen.' 

" ' Glory, Adams ! — glory, my hear- 
ty !' burst from two or three voices. 

" * Order, gentlemen ! — order if you 

E lease !' cried the President ; — ' I'd 
ave you to consider that this is a 
matter of the most serious nature, and 
one which demands your greatest at- 
tention. — What say you, shall we take 
Adam's message for truth or not ?— 
you see the Mars is of opinion that 
he's been gammoned.' 

*' ' Mr President,' cried I rising, 
' by the way in which you're putting 
that question, the trutn or falsehood 
of the message hangs upon my shoul- 
ders. This I protest against ; for it 
is not Adams's message, — it is not 
Tomlins's message, our worthy quar- 
ter-master here — it is Admiral Gard- 
ner's message, which he had been sent 
expressly here to .deliver — ^but which, 
like everything else, he botched, and 
murdered, and made a hundred tiroes 
worse. — I hope, therefore, I'll hear no 
more of Adams's message — the words 
I bave uttered came from the mouth 



J 73 The Man-of' War's- 

of Admiral Pole, and to him I pled^ 
my troth, at his earnest desire, I 
would deliver them to you. I have 
done so— I helieve them — but still, 
farther tht^n that, I disclaim all res- 
ponsibility for their truth or falsehood 
-^that you are to judge of. — I've got 
no more to say, Mr President, — I ve 
already said I believe in the honour 
and truth of Admiral Pole — I beg 
leave to repeat my assertion ; — and 
have now only to request that you'll 
be so good as examine old Totnlins 
here, as to what he heard, in some 
measure to take away any doubts of 
my report of the Admiral's words, and 
more fully to show that I was not 
quite gammoned.' 

'* ' Glory, Adams ! — quite right !' 
was shouted again. 

'* ^ Well, gentlemen,' said the Pre- 
sident, ' what d'ye say, shall we ex- 
amine Tomlins in the first place be- 
fore we proceed to the vote f ' 

" ' Oh, undoubtedly,' cried a great 
number, ' it can do no harm — and 
after all, is but fair play.' 

'' The'quarter-master was now ex- 
amined, and backed every syllable I 
had uttered. I saw the impression 
this examination had made on the 
majority, and immediately said that 
if th,ey had the least doubt of the 
quarter-roaster's being also gammon- 
ed, they might send to the George and 
take the evidence and the belief of the 
story from hundreds who heard it. 
For this service I immediately propo- 
sed Tom Allen of the Mars, and Bill 
Senator of the Marlborough, two of 
the stubbomest hotheads I believe in 
the fleet, along with Bill Ruly of the 
London, and Mark Turner of the Ter- 
rible, two men of sense and also of 
moderation. 

" This was agreed to, and they were 
immediately dispatched — the meeting 
meantime chatting on indifferent mat<« 



Man. Chap. XIX. ZJN^ 

ters. At the end qf an hoar tbfjr t%» 
turned, and fqUv veritfea the m^iisfjge 
I had given * Doth Bill ftuly and 
Mark Turner adding, that the news 
was firmly belieyed on l)oar4 the 
George, lliis, l^oweyer^ was contra* 
dieted by Allen and Senator ; w|io al<« 
lowed that ho doubt there wer6 a few 
that said they believed the storj, Imt 
that the great majority shook tibeir 
heads, expressing their fears that it 
was too good to be true. In t]iis di- 
lemma it was proposed to come to no 
resolution for the present, but to ad« 
journ the meeting until next dij, 
when possibly further intelligence 
might reach them. On the same ao-. 
count the red flag was ordei:6i to be 
kept hoisted untu it was dilrkj and 
the Admiral's to be hoisted in its 
place in the morning. 

'* Well, Ned, Upon my soul, the re- 
sult of this meeting chafflrhied me 
most confoundedly, and aiU- tliat a& 
temoon and evening I conld not he 
bothered with the chat of any one, 
but walked the forecastle^ with ny 
arms a-kimbo, as sulky as you please. 
I had no fears of beipg langned at 
openly, my boy, for I assure you th^fe 
were very few in th.ose days, as tldi 
old withered fist can- show, wiio,wo|d4 
have stood long before xne. Bvi I also 
knew that there were pleqty hfxfk 
laughing and squibbing at me dOy, 
and the very thought was qpiscdj^ 
mortifying. However, I bore vp 91. 
the best manner I could — ipoke uttfe 
and took less notice— -and was rewai4? 
ed next day by a complete triiuijtph* 
A triumph do I cril it?«:I^ WWI 
more, my boy — it was aglcnry — a avfe. 
of northern lialo that endrded mc^ 
and caused me to strut; the dec]^. ftpr 
the whole following day as l^qflty md 
proud as e'er a qufflrterlyTlUieoiuii 
Jackey in the service." 






r 

I 



\ 



i8«t».;j 



Hqra: lialic€e» No. II* 



171 



HOB^ ITAUCiK. 



No. Hi. 



Arisiodemo ; by Vincerm Monti* 



When we presented our readers 
with an account of the Arminio of 
Ippolito Pindemonte^ we promised 
them an early introduction to that au- 
thor's principal rival, il Cavaliere Vin- 
cenzo Monti. We are now ahout to 
fulfil our engagement ; but before en- 
tering upon our task, we feel bound 
to confess, that in thus classing toge- 
ther these two Italian dramatists, we 
have been influenced rather by our 
own individual opinion, than by what 
we understand of the relative estima- 
tion in which they are held by their 
own countrymen, who appear nardly 
to consider Pindemonte as deserving 
of any sort of comparison with Monti. 
Indeed, we have ourselves heard an 
Italian critic, of no ordinary abilities 
and acquirements, select the Aristo- 
j)EM0 of Monti as the masterpiece, 
not only of the Italian, but of the uni- 
versal European modern theatre. — 
Now, how much soever we may ques- 
tion the authority of such a sentence, 
as far as it regards absolute merit, it 
would surely be great presumption in 
foreigners to dispute the decision of 
compatriot literati respecting the rela- 
tive pre-eminence amongst themselves 
of the authors or the works of any 
country. These are points upon whicn 
foreigners, we apprehend, can scarcely 
ever be competent to judge. There is a 
sort of congeniality or homogeneous- 
ness in the language, genius, and taste 
of every separate people, whedier pro- 
duced by peculiarities of national cha- 
racter, or by whatever else generated, 
which necessarily occasions great dis- 
crepancy between their judgments and 
those of strangers ; produces consider- 
able embarrassment and awkwardness 
in all translations ; and renders it more- 
over a difficult, not to say unfair attempt 
to appreciate any work of imagination 
when thus presented to us under the 
disguise of an idiom, with which those 
views, sentiments, and flights of fan- 
cy, most enthusiastically admired at 
home, have no such affinity. Let it 
not, however, be supposea, that in 
thus prefacing our account of, and ex- 
tracts from, an Italian tragedy, with 
remarks tending to depreciate transla- 
tion in general, we intend, by an un- 



exampled exuberaRce of modesty, to 
imdervalue those our labours, past, 
present, or future, in which we nave 
endeavoured, do now, or may here- 
after endeavour, to make ouf readers 
acquainted with the literature of fo- 
reign nations. Such labours are far 
from useless, although their utility be 
of a more limited description than de- 
sultory readers are apt to conceive. If 
we cannot thus enable him, who is 
familiar with none but his mother 
tongue, fully to comprehend and par- 
ticipate in the delight which the works 
passed under review excite in their na- 
tive land, we at least affi>rd him the 
means of learning the difierent tastes 
of different nations, and, according to 
the peculiar temper of his mind, of 
either investigating and comparing 
such different tastes, — a curious poli- 
tical, not less than metaphysical study, 
, — or flattering and feeding his national 
vanity, with the conviction of the im- 
measurable superiority of our own Bri- 
tish taste and genius. 

We proceed without farther pro- 
crastination to Aristodemo, an Ita- 
lian tragedy, in which there is not a 
single word or thought of love from 
beginning to end ; a circumstance^ it 
may be thought, sufficiently remark- 
able, had the play'no other distinction 
to repay the trouble of reviewing.-— 
Remorse and parental affection consti- 
tute the whole interest. The story upon 
which the poet has founded his drama 
is taken from Pausanias. But we shall 
suffer it to develope itself in the pro- 
gress of the piece. The action passes 
in the palace of Aristodemus, king of 
Messenia, and the scene is described 
in the stage directions as a royal hall, 
sala reg-ia, at the back of whicn is seen 
a monument. We have inserted the 
Italian words for the satisfaction of 
any sceptical reader, who, surprised 
at such a choice of locality for a fe- 
pulchre, might accuse us of mistrans- 
lation. — The piece is opened by two 
Spartans, in the following dialogue. 

Lysander, Ay, F^amedes; harbinger 
of peace, ^ 

From ^rta to Messenia's king» I eome. 
Sparta is weary of hostilities ; 
So deeply in the blood of citizens 



174 



Hxtras lialica. No, II. 



CF* 



Are dyed our laurels, that upon the brow 
lliey weigh a heavy burthen and a shame- 

fuL 
Wrath is subdued by pity; and sound 

reason 
Prevails, alleging that 'tis utter folly 
Through avaricious jealousy of state 
To crush ourselves and desolate the earth. 
Then since the enemy was first compelled 
To wish for peace, wise Sparta grants 

the boon, 
And I convey it hither. Nor alone 
Do I bring peace, but with it liberty 
To such of ours as here in servitude 
Are pining, chiefiy to thyself, loved friend, 
Who, liowsoe*er regretted and desired, 
Three years, uuhonourcd, amidst hostile 

walls. 
Hast languished, an illustrious prisoner. 
Pidamedes. I joy to see thee once again, 
Lysander; 
And gladsomely through thee shall I re- 

, gain 
My liberty ; unto the dear embraces 
Of friends and kin return, and hail again 
The light of day upon my country's soil : 
Albeit not Fortune's self could have pro- 
vided 
An easier slavery. Thou'st not to learn 
That fair Cesira, old Talthibius' daughter. 
Is here my fellow-prisoner. But further 
Know, that such favour in the monarch's 

eye, 
Cesira's loveliness, her courteous speech. 
And gentle bearing, have obtained, that 

never 
Have servile fetters by Aristodemus 
Been suffered to oppress her with their 

weight ;* 
Rather with lavish kindness does he load 

her; 
Whilst me, unbound, at pleasure he per- 
mits 
To wander o'er the palace, a partaker 
In her indulgencies. 
Lys, Aristodemus 
Then loves this Spartan maiden, Pala- 
medes ? 
Pal, He loves her with paternal ten- 
derness ; 
And only by her side th' unfortunate 
Feels sometimes in his breast a drop of 

joy 

Soft penetrate, alleviating the grief 
That overwhelms him still. Without 

Cesu'a 
Not ev'n the briefest lightning of a smile 
Were seen to irradiate that melancholy 
And darksome countenance. 



Xyj. Throughout all Greeee 
His mortal meUnchoiy is. the theme 
Of men's discourse ; its cause a mystery. 
But here I judge, what ehewhere U un- 
known 
Must be apparent Kings are. ever cir- 
cled 
By vigilant observers, who explore 
Their every word, .ay, every, sigh and 

thought. 
Then tell me^ friend, what secret canw* 

of gloom 
Has so much busy watchfulness disco- 
vered ? 
Fed. Plainly, as it was told me. 111 re- 
late 
This most unhappy man*8 sad blstoiy. 
A fatal sickness laid Messenia waste. 
When for stem Phito, Delphi's oracle^ 
In horrid sacrifice, a virgin claimed. 
Of th* Epitean race. The lots were cast* 
And on Liciscus* daughter fell the doom* 
The father, guiltily compassionate. 
By secret flight rescued his child frqa 

death. 
And the wronged people eagerly required 
Another victim. Then Aristodemus 
Stood forward, to the sacrificing priest 
Willingly offering his proper child, 
Dirce the beautiful. And in the place 
Of her who fled, Dirce upon the altar 
Was slain ; she quenched with her ppre- 

virgin blood 
The thirst of the insatiable Avernus, 
And for the general safety gave her life. 
Lys, All this I know ; Fame limitad 
it abroad. 
And of the mother's inauspicious late 
Added dark rumours. 

Pal. She, enduring ill . 
Her Dirce's loss, by grief, by rage im- 
pelled, 
Her bosom desperately gashed aQd.toce^ 
And lay, a bloody and disfigured coraei, 
The nuptial couch defiling^ whilst i\the . 

realms 
Of death, a raving but contented sbtdei, 
Her daughter she rejoined. This .was 

the second 
Misfortune of the sad AristodemoSy 
And closely was it followed by the Uiird, 
The most disastrous chance of his Argia; 
She was her father's sole remaining hope^ 
A lovely, sportive in&nt, who as yet, 
Tottering unsteadily on tender foot, 
Had scarce seen half a lustre.* Often- 
times 
Clasping her fondly to his breast, he frit 
The recollection of his suffered woe 






in Latin. 



It is Monti, not we, who must answer for thus making Greeks compute 
atin. 



fSmm 



1826*2 Arisiodemo; by 

By little and by little hushed to rest-; . 
Whilst once more sounded sweetly in his 

heart 
The name of father, brightening his dark 

brow. 
A short-lived solace ! Even of this last 
Sole remnant of his bliss, he was de- 
spoiled. 
For then it was our armies suddenly 
Won the tremendous battle at Anfea, 
And the precipitous Ithom^ press'd 
With all a siege's horrors. Fearing then 
The city's loss, Aristodemus gave 
His daughter from his arms, intrusting her 
Unto Eumaeus' oft-tried loyalty, 
To Argos secretly to be conveyed ; 
Oft hesitating, and a thousand times 
Commending to his care so dear a life. 
Alas, in vain ! Upon Alpheus' banks 
A troop of Spartans, either of the flight 
Privately warned, or thither led by 

chance. 
Fell on the little band, unsparingly 
Slaught'ring her guards, and in the mas- 
sacre 
The royal infant died. 

Lys, Of this adventure 
Know*st thou aught further? 
Pod. Nothing more. 
Lys. Then learn. — 
Lysander was the leader of those forces, 
The conqu'ror of Eumaeus. 

Pal. What, art thou 
The slayer of Argia? Should that deed 

Here be discovered 

Lys. With thy history 
Proceed. — The rest to more convenient 

season 
Shall be reserved. 

Pal. After Argia*s loss, 
Aristodemus gave himself a prey 
To his affliction. Never since has joy 
Shone on his heart, or if it shone, 'twas 

merely 
In guise of lightning's flash, that, fur- 
rowing 
The darkness, vanishes. Thoughtful and 

sad. 
In solitary places now he strays. 
And from his inmost soul laments and 

moans. 
Then madly hurrying onward, howls in 

anguish. 
Calls upon Dirce's name, and at the foot 
Of yonder monument that holds her 

ashes. 
He flings himself, and with convulsive 

sobs 
Embracing it, remains immovable ; 
Ay, so immovable, he might be deem'd 
A marble image, were't not that the tears, 
Which, streaming down his cheeks, de- 
luge the tomb. 



Vincenxo Monti. 



17 S 



Mutely proclaim bint living. Thi^ Ly<- 

sander. 
Is of the miserable king the state. 
Lys.' In truth a wretched state ! ]3ut 

what of that ? 
I came to serve Qiy country, not to weep 
The sorrows of her foe. Dpon this point 
I have important matters to disclose ; 
But for such speech a season must- be 

found 
More free from interruption. Some one 

comes ' 
Who might o'&rhear us. 
Pat. Mark, it is Cesh*a. 

Although we certainly do not in ge- 
neral consider dialogues between the 
minor personages of a drama as best 
calculated for selection in a review, 
which can, necessarily, afford space 
only for a small proportion of any 
piece, we have been induced to extract 
the preceding scene at full length, 
because it appears to us a fair^ and not 
unhappy specimen of our author's 
dramatic talents. It communicates^ 
not unnaturally, all that can be known 
concerning Aristodemus, prior to his 
own disclosures, and, by awakening 
an interest in his sorrows, prepares 
the mind to receive those disclosures,, 
when made, with a sympathy which, 
did they come upon us abruptly, their 
horrible nature might repress. We 
are aware, nevertheleiss, uiat fastidi- 
ous critics might carp at the very an- 
ti-laconic loquacity of Palamedes, and 
might wonder, perhaps, that the Spar- 
tan ambassador should have had no- 
thing more important to discuss widi 
his friend than the gossip of a foreign 
court. With respect to this last ob- 
jection, it will hereafter appear that 
Lysander bore a private and especii^ 
hate to Aristodemus, which, joined to 
other secret reasons, might naturally 
enough make him wish for informa- 
tion concerning the king's state of 
mind. Had his curiosity been thus 
explained and justified, for which a 
word or two would have sufilced, we 
should have thought the exposition of 
the subject a very able one. To pro-, 
ceed : — 

Cesira now enters and inquires af^ 
ter her father, but pays little atten- ' 
tion to Lysander's account of the old 
man's anxiety for her return ; appear- 
ing to be wholly engrossed wjith the 
kindness she has received from Aris- 
todemus, and her regrets at leaving 
him a prey to melancholy. The party 



176 



Hora lialicot* No. II. 



if presently joined by Gonippus, the 
King's confidant^ wuo^ after descri- 
bing the royal mourner as nearly de- 
lirious with agony^ desires his compa- 
nions to withdraw^ because Aristode* 
mus wishes^ in this spot^ 

Onee more to look upon the light of 
day;— 

a wish that would seem more germane 
to the matter were the scene laid in a 
garden. The three Spartans, however, 
comply with the courtier's request, 
and the hero of the piece appears. 

The next scene is one of high im- 
portance, but we hardly know how to 
deal with it. To give it at full lenfrik, 
as it might deserve, is impossible ! 
For some of the details upon which 
the Italian poet dwells, apparently 
with a sort of incomprehensible de- 
light, are so revolting to British deli' 
cacy of every various kind, whether 
mental or personal, of fancy, of sto- 
mach, or of nerves, that we can scarce- 
ly bring ourselves even to insinuate 
ineir nature to our readers. We shall, 
discharge this disagreeable part of our 
duty, when we come to it, as inoffen- 
sively and as briefly as may be. 

The dialogue begins with com- 
plaints upon the part of Aristodemus, 
and remonstrances upon that of Go- 
nippus, who observes that his^master's 
mind appears to be occupied with some 
horrid thought. The King replies, — 

Gonippus, yes, the thought is horrible, 
Thou can*st not know how murderous- 
ly dreadful. 
Thy glances cannot penetrate my heart. 
Nor view the tempest that convulses it. 
Thou faithful friend, believe me, 1 am 

wretched. 
Immeasurably wretched ! Sacrilegious, 
Impious, accurs'd of Heav''n, nature's 

abhorrence. 
Yet more mine own ! 

Gonij^ Alas! What strange disor- 
der! 
Sorrow bewilders sure thy faculties, 
And from inflam*d and false imaginings 
Thy melancholy springs. 

Arist, Would that were all ! 
But dost thou know me ! Dost thou 

ev'n conjecture 
Whose blood is ever trickling o'er my 

hands ? 
Hast thou beheld the bursting sepulchre 
From out its dark profundity send spec- 
tres 



To hurl rae from mj tkifilikf'UaDlfk 

my locks « 

To twist their finger^ toMgtk nj 

crown ? 
Or hast thou heard, for em mSkoiag 

round. 
Those frightful accents, « Die, bailMaiaBL 

die ?' 
Yes, I will die ; here is nifteadfhnuiL 
"My ready blood ; shed, shed it' ftU, i^M 

spare not ! 
Avenge offended nature, and at leiigth 
Relieve me from thine aspect erad 

shade ! 

These expres8ions,,whilst tlieyfill 
Gonippus with terror,' strongly excite 
liis curiosity ; and he presses Ariato-i 
demus with supplications until thfi 
latter reluctantly promises to reteti 
bis secret to him. The king first dis- 
plays a blood-stained dagser, dedans 
that the blood which aisooloiirs it 
once flowed in Dirce's veins, and asks 
Gonippus if he knows what hsod 
drew it thence ? The shuddering cdb- 
fldant now shrinks fhnn the naifid 
tale, but the gloomy narrator resolnle- 
ly goes on with it He begins, aa^ 
Falamedes, with the required sacrifice 
of a virgin of the Epiteah faoe^ aira 
the flight of Liciscus wi(h his devoted 
daughter. Then reminding hia hearer 
that the throne was vacant duiD^ 
those dreadful days, he 8iil:()oiiMy that 
ambition had suggested tl|e iijk of 
gaining all suffrages to himadf>bf^ 
the seemingly generous, voliiatdrf 
profl*er of his own dauffhter to tlie sm 
criflcial axe. He further relatea, thai 
having so offered her, the lom of 
Dirce nad endeavoured to preycnt die 
execution of his purpose, uid findhig; 
entreaties and menaces alike ineffica- 
dous, had declared the sacrifice to be 
impossible, since Dirce no longer an- 
swered to the description giveit by tlw 
oracle of the victim required ; she had 
yielded to his passion, and -bore with* 
iu her bosom the pledge of hyve; A 
statement confirmed by the mother of 
the intended victim ; and that he^ 
Aristodemus, maddened by diiapi-' 
pointed ambition, and impending^ i^ 
parcntly , inevitable dim)ioe, hMd null' 
ed to the chamber of his dan^tav 
and stabbed her to the heart, ill shiij 
lay asleep, exhausted by previoiibcgl^ "^ 
tation. 

Gonippus here interruj^ At Dlle 

IS 






1 



18260 



ArislodtniM ; by Vincenzo Monti* 



ifrith exprewions of horror, which 
Aristodemus desires him to reserve 
until he shall have ampler cause for 
them ; a request which we might well 
address to our readers, notwithstand- 
ing our purpose of sparing them and 
ourselves as much as possihle of what 
the monarch, in the plenitude of his 
sovereign power, inflicts upon his 
humble friend. 

The father had opened his daughter 
to seek for the evidence of her frailty, 
and had convinced himself of her in- 
nocence. The mother, entering un- 
expectedly, and overpowered by the 
spectacle before her, had snatched up 
the fallen dagger, and plunged it into 
her own bosom. The priests, gained 
to his interest, had conveyed the mur- 
dered Dirce privately to the temple, 
and spread tne report that she had 
been offered up in sacrifice during the 
night, and Aristodemus had obtained 
the crown. But he is tortured by re- 
morse, and nightly a horrid spectre 
— Gonippus again interrupts him, 
refuses to listen to ghost-stories, as- 
sures the King that his remorse has 
abundantly expiated his crime, and 
urges him to attend to state affairs, 
and to receive the Spartan envoy. 
Aristodemus rouses himself, with an 
evidently painful effort, to consent, 
and the first Act concludes. 

We must here pause for a remark 
or two. — Monti asserts that the pre- 
ceding details are taken, vdthout al- 
teration, from Pausanias. We write — 
Proh pudor! That critics should have 
to confess such degeneracy from the 
book-worm habits of their predeces- 
sors ! But so it is ; and the confession 
is wrung from us by the necessity of 
the case. We write at a fashionable 
watering-place, whither U Cavaliere 
Vincenzo Monti has, at our especial 
invitation, accompanied us, but where 
we have no possible means of refer- 
ring to Greek authorities. We are 
willing, however, to take our friend 
the Cavaliere s word for the accuracy 
of his version of Pausanias ; and still 
we must observe to him, that a poet is 
notbound to such strict historical truth 
— more paiticularly when his subject 
is one of remote antiquity — as should 
preclude him from softening down, if 
not omitting, any minor, or rather un- 
essential circumstances, that happen 
to be absolutely irreconcilable with 
the common natural fealings of man- 
kind. Of this descriptioD^ most in- 

Vol. XIX. 



dubitably, is the dittusting naugliMg 
of his mnrdered chud's corse by dit 
father. Her immaculate purity would 
have been sufficiently establidied by 
her dying rootlier's testimotiy; and 
Aristodemus would have had ampk 
cause for remorse, melancholy, bloody 
hands, and ghost-seeing, in the simple 
fact of his JUwBcide, — ^if we mey coin 
a name for a crime that scarcely seemt 
to have entered into the couteroplatiofi 
of legislators. A question arises with 
respect to this ultra-atrocity of ttwf^ 
dy, under the management of writov 
whose national theatre has been habi- 
tually charged with tamene68,ormcnd- 
lin softness, which we cannot past oTcf 
unnoticed, although our present lei^ 
sure serves not for its full inyest^a^ 
tion. Docs so violent a change pro- 
ceed merely from the reaction wnidi 
we see constantly taking place in all 
things, physical and moral, around 
us ? Or is it a sort of volcanic erup-^ 
tion of a naturally blood-thirsty dis*> 
position, previously restrained, upon 
the stage at least, by the arbitrary laws 
of dramatic decorum, and of the icenie 
fltness of things? This doubt firet 
presented itself to our minds during 
the perusal of Voltaire's " Mart de 
Cesar" in which, it will be recollected, 
Caesar discovers himself to Brutus as 
his father, accompanying the declara- 
tion of their consanguinity with all 
the documents requisite to substan- 
tiate his paternal claims ; whereupon 
Brutus first requires that Csesar, like 
a dutiful father, should instantly com- 
ply with his wishes, and lay down,the 
dictatorship ; which when Cesar, per- 
sisting with unparalleled obstinacy, 
refuses, the inflexibly virtuous son, 
never for a moment putting nature in 
the balance against patriotism, hurries 
back to his fellow-conspirators, to 
make the final arrangements for the 
assassination of his newly recognized 

Earent. Assuredly no British audience, 
ardened to sanguinary representa- 
tions as our nerves and hearts are by 
foreigners supposed to be, could sit 
out such a deliberate parricide, any 
more than the descriptions put by 
Monti into the mouth (^Aristodemus. 
But, as we have already said, we can- 
not now go into all the pros and cons 
of this difficult question ; and there- 
fore, recommending it to the reader's 
serious consideration, we return to the 
business in hand. 
The second Act, like the first, opens 

Z 



178 



with a conrenation between our two 
Spartan acquaintance, Lysander and 
Palamedes. In this it appears, as may 
have been anticipated, that Cesira is 
the lost Argia, whom Lysander, in the 
hope of thus obtaining some unex- 
plained advantage over the detested 
Aristodemus, had saved, together with 
her guardian Eumaeus, in trusting both 
to the faith of Talthibius, the one to 
he educated as his child, the other to 
be kept a close prisoner. Palamedes 
would fain reveal the secret to comfort 
the bereaved and sorrowing father; 
but Lysander insists upon its conceal- 
ment, and hurries away his friend, to 
convince him elsewhere of the patriotic 
duty of silence, upon seeing Cesira and 
Gonippus approach. The last-named 
persons have scarcely succeeded to the 
vacated stage, and exchanged a few 
sentences about Aristodemus, ere the 
hero himself joins them, and dis- 
patches his confidant to summon and 
introduce the Spartan ambassador. We 
shall give the scene of unconscious na- 
tural affection between the mutually 
unknown father and daughter, that 
fills up the period of his absence. The 
spectator's previous knowledge of their 
actual relationship gives it a peculiarly 
touching charm. 

Arist, If Heav*D, Cesira, favour mine 

attempts, 
This day shall close the long hostilities 
'Twixt Sparta and Messenia — shall be- 
stow 
Peace on the nations. And of smiling 

peace, 
The firstling, bitter fruit, must be thy loss. 
Infirm and sorrowful sfiall I be left, 
Whilst thou, delighted, hurriest to greet 
Thy native Spartan walls. 

Ces. Erroneously 
My heart thou readest, — better do the 

gods 
Read and interpret it. 

Arist, Oh, generous maid ! 
Wouldst thou remain with me? — l8*t 

possible 
Thou shouldst desire it ? Hast thou then 

forgotten 
The father who expects thee, and but lives 
On the sweet hope of seeing thee ? 

Ces. My father 
Dwells in my heart, but thou art also 

there ; 
For thee that heart speaks strongly, 

urging still 
That thou to its affection art entitled — 
Entitled by my gratitude, thy sorrows. 



Horte Italics* A'o. IL £7f^ 

And by another powttfvllMliqgf 



mg 

Inexplicable tomnlts in my tool. 

Arist, Our hearts have sjiDiMithiicd.-* 
But to thy father, 

To him alone, these tendte sentimmti 

Are due.— To him return; comlBrthig 
age. 

Most fortunate old man I Tbouiy at tbe 
least, 

Art not of those whom, in their indigna- 
tion, 

Tiie gods made fathers ! Thou npon tfaj 
death-bed 

Shalt haveafilial hand toelose thine eyes— 
Shalt feel thine icy cheeks Dew-wann'd 

by kisses 
Given by a daughter's lips. Alas ] had 

fate 
But spared her to mine angmsh^ I, ev*n.| 
Might well have hoped to taste sndi 

happiness- 
Might in her arms have laid the fmrthtn 

down 
Of all my woes. ' 

Ces, Whom speak'st thou of ? ■ 
Arist, Argia. 
Forgive that I so oft remember her. 
She was, thou know'st, the last 

ing treasure 
Whence mine age once hoped milmBt* All 

things now 
Recall her. Everywhere does an miu 

sion. 
Cruelly flattering, depict her. 
When I behold, on her I seem to _ 
My heart, meanwhile, tremUes aad'peU 

pitates, 
And of mine idle tenderness the gods 
Make mockery. 

Ces, Most pitiable fiUher ! 
Arist. Her years would equal riiipg, ui 
nor in beauty. 
Nor virtue, should she thine infierior 
prove. 
Ces, Oh wherefore would the gods 

deprive thee of her ! 
Arist, They sought the consmniiiatkNi 

of my griefs. 
Ces. Were she yet living, wert thou to 

content ? 
Arist. Cesira, could I onee emlKiGe 
her, once, 
I*d ask no more. 

Ces. Oh, would I were Aigla I 
Arist, Wert thou-— Oh,- daui^ter ! 
Ces. Wherefore call me daughter ! ' 
Arist, My heart resistlessly in^irei 

the name. 
Ces, Me, likewise, me^ oft-times Mj 
heart impels 
To call thee father. . ^ 

Ariti, Do so— call eae fiit)ieri 



I- 









i8t6.;] 



Arisiodemo ; by Vincenzo Meniu 



179 



There is a sweetness in the very name— 
A charm that ravishes the soul ; and none 
Can taste it thoroughly, save who, like me. 
The bitterest dregs of agony have drunk — 
Have in their bosoms* depths felt nature's 

touch- 
Have lost their children— have for ever 
lost them ! 
Ces. (atide,) He breaks my heart ! 

Lysander is now ushered in by Go- 
nippus, who, with Cesira, immediately 
withdraws. Left alone with the am- 
bassador of his arrogant and triumph- 
ant enemies, the unhappy King shakes 
off his depression, and shows himself 
worthy of the exalted dignity he had 
so flagitiously acquired. This scene is 
written with considerable talent ; but 
the political squabbles of Lacedsemon 
and Messenia are, at this time of day, 
too absolutely uninteresting to justify 
a detailed account of the arguments 
of the two interlocutors. Suffice it to 
say, that Aristodemus displays a lofty 
and resolved spirit, unbroken by ad- 
versity ; and wnile he consents to pur- 
chase peace — impelled thereunto by 
the impatience and sufferings of his 
subjects — with the surrender of a por- 
tion of his dominions, he positively re- 
jects a condition, apparently of less 
moment, but which ne considers dis- 
honourable: and that the Spartan 
character is well pourtrayed in Lysan- 
der, save and except a small deficiency 
in laconic brevity, such as we before 
imputed, more largely, to Palamedes. 
But then we must frankly own, that it 
would be no easy matter to eke out one 
of these incidental tragedies, half the 
dramatis persons being Spartans born 
or bred, did all those individuals strict- 
ly adhere to the conversational fashion 
of their country. Lysander, who seems 
to set more store by solid profit, and 
less by the bubble reputation, than 
Aristodemus, agrees to a compromise ; 
they strike hands upon the bargain ; 
and the war and the second Act are at 
an end. 

In the third Act, Aristodemus is dis- 
covered sitting beside Dirce's tomb, im- 
mersed in gloomy meditations. These 
he intimates in soliloquy, and their 
evident tendency is towards suicide. 
He is joined by Gonippus, who endea- 
vours, by no means successfully, to 
console mm, and presently gives place 
to Cesira. She comes to take leave of 
her royal and paternal friend, prior to 
quitting Messenia for Sparta. In this 



valedietory interview, much of that 
indistinct and unconscious natural af« 
fection, of which we have already given 
a specimen, is expressed on both sides, 
and sometimes in terms so energetic, 
that, in the representation, we should 
almost apprehend its approaching too 
nearly to the character of passion ;— • 
certainly, if it is preserved from it, the 
preservation mijst be chiefly due to 
the spectators' consciousness of that 
consanguinity, of which the parties 
themselves are uninformed. But be 
that as it may, poor Cesira, from her 
ignorance of the real source of Aristo- 
demus's distress, in her professions of 
attachment, her praises, and her va- 
rious efibrts at consolation, so irritates 
the wound she would fain heal, that 
the afflicted monarch breaks from her 
in an agony of despair. The Spartans 
immediately afterwards come in search 
of her ; Lysander sternly rejects her 
entreaties to delay their departure, as 
well as the private remonstrances of 
Palamedes upon his inhumanity ; and 
Cesira, yielding to the plea of filial 
duty, sets forth with them upon their 
homeward journey, leaving a kind 
message for the King with Gonippus, 
who had come to see them ofll 

Aristodemus, when they are gone, 
returns upon the stage, again rejects 
his confidant's attempts at consolation, 
and announces his now settled pur- 
pose of self-slaughter. Against this 
intention Gonippus argues vehement- 
ly, and we cannot but think in some- 
what too Christian a strain. Theking, 
to prove the utter impossibility of his 
longer enduring life, now relates the 
fearful manner in which he is haunt- 
ed by his daughter's ghost ; but his 
description of the spectre reminds us 
too disagreeably of a suMect in a dis- 
secting-room, to be dwelt upon. The 
confidant's incredulity is overpowered^ 
or at least silencedi, and he begins pro- 
posing journeys, and such other re- 
ceived methods for the cuf e of sorrow ; 
but Aristodemus, without attending 
to him, determines to enter Dirce's 
sepulchre, and there question the 
dreadful phantom. The utmost that 
Cronippus can obtain by his opposi- 
tion, remonstrances, and supplications, 
is the surrender of the before-men- 
tioned blood-stained dagger, and the 
king's visiting the' abode of death 
unarmed. The third Act closes with 
the entrance of Aristodemus into the 
monument. 



!«• 



'Herat lialicee. No, II, 



In ike first scene of the fourth Act 
Cesira again makes her appearance. 
Palamedes having contrived^ in some 
unexplained way, to detain Lysander 
a little longer in Messenia, she has 
taken advantage of the delay, to re- 
turn in quest of Aristodemus, and to 
dittcorate with flowers the tomh of the 
lamented although unknown Dirce. 
Whilst 'she is engaged in the latter 
occupation, the misefable father ex- 
claims from within the monument, 

Leave, leave me, horrid spectre ! 

Os. Gracious Powers ! 
Did I not hear Aristodemus* voice ? 
Te gods, protect me ! 

Abistodemi/s bursts from the tomb, 
and rushes to the front of tlie stage, 

Arist. Leave me 1 hence! avaunt! 
Fity me, barbarous as thou art \^-[Faints. 

Ces. Ob, where 
Shall I seek shelter ! Me uiiliappy ! nei- 
ther 
Can I endure his sight, nor shriek, nor 

fly- 
What shall I do ? — Let me assist )iim — 

gods ! 
Xfae ashy hue of death is on his brow, 
Whence sweat-drops thickly burst — his 

hair uprises— 
His aspect terrifies— Aristodemus, 
Aristodemus, answer, hear*st thou not ? 
Jrist, Fly ! touch me not ! Avaunt, 

revengeful shade ! 
Ces, Look up, and recognize me— it 
is I 
Who call upon thee. 

Arist. How ?^-ls*t vanish 'd ? Say, 
Whither ls*tgone? From such relentless 

Tage 
Who rescued me ? 

Ces, What speak'st thou of ? and why 
So anxiously look round ? 

Arist, Didst thou not see ? 
Didst thou not hear ? 

Ces, What should I hear or see ? 
1 shudder whilst I listen to thine ac- 
cents— 
Arist, And thou, who mercifully com*st 
to aid me, 
What art thou ?— tf a deity from Hea- 
ven, 
Reveal thyself, I pray thee. At thy feet 
rii fall in adoration. 
Ces. Mighty gods ! 
What wouldst thou ? Dost thou not re- 
member me ? 
I am Cesira. 
Arisf, Who ?— What is Cesira ? 
Omra (a«rf<7. )— Wot's me ! his Kenses 
are eiUirflv lost. 






{Aloud)^DoBt thou mt 
features ? Look. 
Arist, Upon my heart thef 
ved— My heiirt 
Now whispers to me, and tlM aiatdis* 

perses. 
Thou soother of my sorrows, Co nine 

arms 
Who has restored thed ? Let oie wic(i 

thy tears 
Mingle mine own ;— -this heart will burst 
with anguish (^ 

If not by tears relieved. 
Ces, Into my bosom 
Pour all thy tears and suSeringe— Nope 

other, 
With pity and with grief so deeply toudi- 

cd, 
Shalt thou e*er find.— But from thy lips' 

such words. 
Oh king, have burst, T shiver even jfet 
With Iiorror at their sound. What it fit, 

say. 
The spectre tliat so cnielly pnrsnes thee f 
Arist, The innocent that pefseeutes 

the guilty. 
Ces, And who the guilty? 
Arist, I. 

Ces. Thou? Wherefore thoa 
Strive to persuade me thou ait criflsihal? 
Arist. Because I slew herw 
Ces, Whom? Whom didst thou etaj ? 
Arist, My daughter. 
Ces, Heavens ! he raves« Aliii^ «b«l 
frenzy ■ • 

Urged him within her toa^ to ee| his 

foot ? 
Merciful gods, to be termed meveifiil . 
If 'tis indeed your pleasure, oib reatore 
His wandering fiu^uUies! Be moved to 

pity ! 
Alas, thou tremblest : what so fixedly 
GazGst thou on ? 

Arist, It comes again— the spectre ! 
'Tis there ! Dost thou not see it ? Oiib 

protect me, 
In pity shield me from its sight! 

Ces, Oh! this 
Is mere distraction— Nothing f pajreetve 
Save yonder tomb. 

Arist. Observe, upon its threshold 
Erect and menacing the phantom ttamb; 
Observe, immovably on me its eyes 
Are fixed ; — it shudders.— Ob,: be thou 
appeased, > 

Tiiou ever- wrathful ! If my dangktef ^ 
shade • - 

Thou be, why take so terrible a fmm 9 
Who gave thee Itoenoe o'er thy liohoc. 

thus, 
O'er nature^s self to tyrannize? ^Tianiiil% 
And slow Tecedingfe bow i| vmijihos^ « - 
i^\\ me ! how cruel, and how frigMil! 



AristodetM: by Fincenw Mbmti.' 



Ctt. h 

I also feel tlie ice of terror creep 
Through every vein. Nothiiig I saw, no, 

nothing, 
In very truth. But* that &int moaning 

heard, 
The silent horror from the yawning 

tomb 
Out-breathed, thy words, the paleness of 

thy cheek. 
Chiefly the inward tumult of my soul. 
All, all forbid me longer to dispute 
That in yon dismal sepulchre abides 
A dreadful spectre. But if manifest 
To thee, say wherefore is't from me con- 
cealed ? 
Jlrist. Thou'rt innocent; those pure 
and gentle eyes 
Were ne*er design*d to look upon such 

secrets 
As the indignant deities reveal 
But to the guilty, with remorse and 

shame 
To overwhelm them. Thou no mother's 

blood 
Ilast shed ; the cry of Nature dooms not 
thee. 
Ces. Art thou indeed then guilty ? 
Arist. I have said it 
But question me no farther-^Prythee, 

fly,- 
Forsake ne. 

Ces* I forsake thee ? Never, never ! 
Whatever thy misdeeds, within my heart 
Is written tliy defence. 

jirist. My condemnation 
In heaven is written, written with the 

blood 
Of innocence* 

Ces. And thus impUcable 
Are parted spirits? 

^rist. Wholly to themselves 
The gods beyond the confines of the 

grave 
Reserve the privilege of pardoning. 
But say, wert thou my daughter, and, 

misled 
By guilty wishes, I had murder'd thee : 
Spirit of clemency, couldst thou forgive 
Thy barbarous assassin? Speak, Cesi- 

ra; 
Wouldst thou forgive ? 
Ces. Oh, speak not thus ! 
Arist, And farther, 
Believest thou Heaven would sanction 
thy forgiveness ? 
Ces, Is't possible that Heaven should 
allow 
In souls of children such enduring wrath, 
Against a father, such relentless ven- 
geance ? 
Jrist. Severe, inscrutable, unfisthom- 
ablo, 



111 



Ara Htavnn'sdeeresf; through their eb- 

scurity . • 

No mortal eys may penstrate. Peiv 

chance 
Heaven, as a warning to mankind, or- 
dains 
Mine agonies, whence Nature to revere. 
Ay, and to dread, may every parent 

learn. 
Believe it, Natnre outraged is ferocioHS* 
The name of fistber with impunity 
None bear; whoever violates its duties, 
Sooner or later shall repent and weep. 
Ces. And thou hast wept. After such 
sufferings 
'Tls time to dry thy tears, and to im- 
plore 
From adverse gods of thy long penitenee 
The fruits. Take courage ! Every orime 

admits 
Of expiation. This resentful shade 
With grateful incense and the clKHcett 

victims 
Propitiate. 

Arist, Be it so— I will. The victim 
Already is selected. 
Ces. By thy side 
I at the holy office will assist. 
Arist, No, no ! Desire not of the sa- 
crifice 
To be a witness— I advise thee— 4o not. 
Ces, I would myself with flowery 
wreaths adorn 
The victim, and by supplications strive • 
To change thy destiny. 

Arist. *T\vi]l change, Cesira ; 
I hope it— confidtntly. Soon 'twill 
change. 
Ces, Misdoubt it not. All evils h«ve 
their period ; 
Heaven's clemency, thongh sometinev 

lung delayed, 
Ne*er wholly fails; and thou, whose pe^- 

nitence,— > 
He hears me not, but g^'zes on the ground - 
Willi eyes, whose very lids are motion- 
less. * 
lie seems a statue. 
Arist, (fltfttfe,)— Nought but this— *Tis 
so. 
One instant, then repose.— >(^^d.)^-I 
have resolved. 
Ces, Resolved on what ? Explain. 
Arist, Only on peace. 
Ces, That say*st thou in such troubled 
accents ? 
' Arist. No ; 

Vm tranquil; seest tliou not? i tm all 
tranquil. 
Ces, This calmness more affrights me 
than thy fury. 
For pity*s saker— Again he heeds -me 
nor. 



I9t 



Horte lialUcp* No* II* 



10 



iHlli 



WJyit aetks he iiadenieftth his mintle 

thus? 
There's not a fibre in my frame bat 
trembles. 
Ariit. (aside.) No matter. I shall find 

another. Any may serve. 
Ces. Oh, stay! I pray thee, go not 
hence ! 
Prostrate before thee, I adjure thee, stay ! 
£(ear me, renounce thy horrible intent ! 
jirisi. What strange intent shapes out 

thy startled fancy ? 
Ces, Spare me the agony of utterance ! 
Dimly I see it, and with horror freeze. 
Arist* Nothing disastrous apprehend for 
me, 
Be thy vain terrors by this smile dispeU'd. 
CesL That smile? Thou can*st not 
know how ghastly 'tis. 
It terrifies me. Thoughts whence spring 

such smiles, 
Cannot be innocent. Oh, change them» 

change them ! 
Oh, fly me not, but look upon me ! See, 
'Tis I implore thee — Gods! he listens 

not 
Frenzied he stands — I am undone — Oh, 

stay ! 
Listen, I follow thee. 

[Abistodemus, by threatening signs, 
forbids herfoUowing him, and rushes 
out, 

Alas ! alas ! 
Am I forbidden thus?— That sign, that 

glance. 
Have stunn'd my senses. 

Enter Gonippus. 

Oh, the gods be praised ! 
A deity, Gonippus, sends thee hither. 
The king is frantic—- Fly, pursue his steps. 
Preserve him from the frenzy of his soul. 
Gonippus silently obeys, and after 
this powerfully-conceived and striking 
scene^ Cesira remains alone, over- 
whelmed with grief and terror. In 
this coition, she is found by Eumae- 
us, the guardian of her infancy, who, 
upon being liberated from his Spartan 
imprisonment, has forthwith hurried 
home. It can hardly be necessary to 
say what his arrival immediately re- 
veals to Cesira, or, as she is thence- 
forward, called, Argia, the mystery of 
her birth, and extorts from the still 
unwilling Lysander, a confirmation of 
the important discovery. Argia, de- 
lighted at learning her near affinity to 
him she already so filially loves, flies 
to seek her father ; and the Spartans 
take their final departure from Messe- 
nia, which the good-natured Pakme- 
des has no longer any object in retard- 
ing. Thus ends the fourth Act. 



The fifth is yery iliort. Il Wi^ 

with the anxieties andabanturof A» 
and Gonippus, neither of wlum £ 
been able to find Aristodemiuk Aig 
desires Gonippus to prosecate S 
search, promising to wait the ma 
where she is, the haU, oontabdi 
Dirce's monument, being the king 
favourite haunt. She is no sooni 
alone, however, than shereooQeetshi 
unhappy father's recent lidt to die h 
terior of the tomb, and is seised vil 
terror, lest he shoold have leMviM 
to a spot so well calculated to exai|M 
rate his previously frended Ibeliiig 
After a moment's nesitation, prpiDeei 
ing from dread of the speetito, whb 
she has learnt to beUeve inhabita H 
sepulchre, she resolves to enter it i 
quest of the royal penitent. She hi 
scarcely disappeared in exeeution ( 
her enterprise, when Aristodenn 
comes upon tiie stage^ armed irith 
dagger, and after a very brief mom 
logue, stabs himself. A2|pa» Gonn 
pus, and Eumaeus, rush in, «id tl 
wretched man is presently iafonDSi 
that in his belovecf Cesira^ he heholi 
his long-lost, and yainly*TC||^etU 
dai^hter, Argia. He excUlmay m d 
spair at thus discoverinff, toolttto, wh 
happiness had been within hia xeach 

And thns must I recover tbcei Qkf as 
Of Heav*n*s revenge the dkMk eodSDi 

mation 
I see, the agonies of death now fesll 
Oh, cruel recognition ! Oh, my eUU ! 
Ungovernable fury fills my brsiist. 
Compelling me to corse the hour th 

gives ' . 

A daughter to mine arms. 
Argia, Ye pitying gods. 
Oh, give me back my lkthsi> «p witiihi 
Here let me die ! 

Arist. Art raving, that tboo hopeSI 
Compassion from the gods? That go 

there are, ' . ■ 

I weU believe, abundantly to ne 
Is their existence proved by my nutk 

tunes. 
But they are cruel. •Their beiliaritj» 
Daughter, to this has driven me. 

Argia, Ye powers ! 
Hear me, behold my scalding teat% m 

pardon 
His frantic accents! Oh, my dean 

father, ^ 

To suffering add not crimen flie mmt 

crimes. 
The blasphemy of desperation* 

ArisL *Tis 
The only solace left me. Shall I ho| 



Arisiodew ; by Vimeii^o Monti. 



In this condition pardon? Can I ask it? 
Know I if I desire it? 
Argia, Mighty gods! 
My fatlier, strive against this horrid terror ; 
Oh, tranquillize thy spirit, and thine eyes 
Raise trustingly towards Heaven ! 

Gordp. He casts them down 
And murmurs *twixt his lips ; see from 

his face 
All colour fades. 

Arist, Oh, whither do ye drag me ? 
Where am I ? What a dar]c4»me solitude ! 
Remove those pallid phantoms. Say for 

whom 
Those dreadful scourges are designed ? 
Argia, Woe*8 me ! 
Eum. Unhappy king! 
Gon. The agony of death 
Causes insanity. Aristodemus, 
My sovereign, dost thou know me ? Me, 

Gonippus? 
See*st thou thy daughter ? 

Arist. Well, what would my daugliter ? 
If I destroyed, have I not wept for her ? 
Is*t not enough of vengeance ? Let her 

come, 
1*11 speak to her myself. Look on her, see ; 
Her tresses bristle on her brow like thorns, 
And in those empty sockets, eyes are 

none ! 
Who tore them out ? Why do her nostrils 

pour 
Rivers of blood ! Alas I— 0*er all the rest 
In pity cast a veil. Spread over her 
My royal mantle's ample folds. To frag- 
ments 
Rend, crush the diadem her blood distains. 
And with the remnants of its dust bestrew 
The thrones of earth. Proclaim to haugh- 
tiest kings. 
That royal state by guilt is dearly pur- 
chased— 

That I — expired {Dies. 

Gon. Oh, what a dreadful end ! 

We have in general little relish for 
a long critique, appended^ epil<^e fa- 
shion, to the end of the analysis of a 
drama. If the analysis and extracts 
be worth any things tne faults and me- 
rits of the piece in question must have 
been already made manifest; and 
moreover, in these enlightened days^ 
when^ whatever reading and writing 
may do, criticism indisputably ''comes 
by nature ;* all the labours of the Re- 
viewer, whether laudatory or damna- 
tory^ but more espedaUy explanatory 
of either sentence^ might seem to he 
works of absolute supereroj^ation. But 
notwithstanding these motiYes for sup- 
pressing all further reflections upon 
this extraordinary tragedy^ and follow- 
ing our author's example by abruptly 
concluding our article as he does his 
drama, with the death of its hero, 
there is one remark with which wc 



1^ 



must trouble our readers ; bec«ue> 
being perhaps rather of a n^ative than 
of a positive character^ no power of ge- 
nius coi^d^ without an attentive peru- 
sal of the whole play, enable them to 
make it for themselves. It is this — to 
not a soul of the dramatis persotus, 
from the commencement of the first 
Act to the close of the fifth, does it 
ever occur to suggest as a topic of con- 
solation to the grieving monarch, the 
good use he has made of his royal au- 
thority, however nefariously acquired ; 
to dilate upon the battles he has fought 
for the protection of his people ; upon 
the happiness he has diffiised around 
him by wise government ; or upon the 
grateful afiection borne him by his 
subjects. Once indeed, Cesira, in com- 
bating his belief pf being an object 
of divine wrath, observes, that on the 
contrary, the gods must be favourably 
disposed towards so good a father, citi- 
zen, and king. This, of course, is pre- 
vious to her knowledge of her royal 
friend's guilt. And once Gonippus m« 
vites him, by way of a diversion to his 
sorrows, to walk forth, and see how 
the people rejoice in the peace conclu- 
ded with Sparta. This last is the only 
passage in which we find the slightest 
intimation of what ought to constitute 
the enjoyments of sovereignty, or the 
lightest tendency towards what might 
have been conceived to be the topics 
best adapted for soothing the pangs of 
the miserable criminal with hopes that 
his unnatural deed had been in any 
degree expiated. Through the whole 
play, the pomp and exaltation of royal- 
ty seem to be the principal, if not the 
only ideas connected with the kinglj 
office, or, to speak more in the spint 
of the work we are reviewing, with the 
kingly title ; and the remorse, tears, 
and secluded melancholy of the sor- 
rowing penitent, including, we cannot 
but apprehend, the at least occasional 
dereliction of duties which neither na- 
ture nor fortune had thrust upon him, 
are the sole grounds upon which he is 
encouraged to hope for pardon. We 
suspect that this marveuous apparent 
deficiency of all philosophical concep- 
tions of public virtue, love of fame, or 
even of generous ambition, as at least 
not incompatible with high station, 
must be ascribed rather to the morid 
and political mal ariaofibe fair, but de- 
fnded land, where ourpoet's ''young 
idea" first Icametl '' to shoot," than to 
any vulgar or Jacobinical prejudices 
appertaining more idiosyncratically to 
/■/ Cavaliere A'^incenzo Monti. 



,o 



Iti AieL gM. 

AXKL, 

A FREE TRANSLATION FKOM A POPULAR SWEDISH POKM. 

BY E8IAS TEGNER. 

Pultowa's figlit was o'er — the royal Swede 

Iinmur'd in Bender, like Iiis own war steed 

Impatient chaf d — his country bled to death 

Like a spent warrior ; while the fickle breath 

Of men that swelled so late the hero's iHoe 

In murmurs deep subsiding, cursed his name. 

Unmoved he stood, as ocf^aii's rock defies 

The dashing w.ives lliat round its bosom rise. 

The storm might burst. Earth's trembling base be rock d, 

Th' unconquer'd Spirit still the tempest mock'd. 

Eve closed at Bender, as its curtain falls 
Upon the exiled — and the monarch calls 
Young Axel to his presence; bids him choose 
His fleetest steed, and bear momentous news 
To Sweden, to the Council — day nor night 
Must the youth stay his swift adventurous flight. 
He was an orphan— since by Charles's side 
His father fell, the King his place supplied. 
The camp's wild nursling own'd a form and face 
Too rarely seen 'mid our degenerate race ; 
Youth on his cheek bade freshest roses shine. 
His form was stately as his country's pine; 
His brow was cloudless as heaven's summer air. 
And his pure soul was all reflected there. 
His bright eye, like the eagle's, fearless raised 
On the great source of light, confiding, gazed. 
While unappaird alike, tiiat stedfast eye 
Could all the powers of darkness calm defy. 

Proud had been Axel, when the gracious hand 
That nurtured, join'd him to a chosen band 
Of seven bright youths, their Sovereign's trusty guard. 
From rest, from love, from luxury debarr'd. 
Strange were the vows which they had sworn to keep. 
Ne'er on th' inglorious couch of ease to sleep. 

Ne'er in the battle's stormy hour to yield, , j 

Till seven proud foes lay vanquish'd on the field ; 
And, ah ! how harder far than all beside. 
Never to wed, till Charles should choose a bride ; 
Vainly must eyes their azure heaven unfbld> 
Vainly may cluster o'er them locks of gold. 
Vainly must roses on the lip repose. 
Vainly the swan-like bosom heave its snows ; 
Thou sword-betroth'd One ! close thine eyes or flee. 
There is no bride, save Victory — for Thee I 

How did the heart of Axel swell with joy. 
As from his master's presence tum'd the boy ! 

U 



. 



Axel. IW 

The precious letter in his belt he sew'd. 
And day and night the stripling gaily rode. 
Till, on the confines of the wild Ukraine, 
A band of wart"iors seized his flowing rein. 
One bade him yield (or die) the precious scroll-^ 
Quick flash'd the hero's sword, and gave his sole> 
His Scandinavian answer — to the shore 
Of Lethe sent, that caitiif spoke no more ! 

The youtlU^s back against a trusty oak 
Supporting, mil with quick successive stroke 
His foes diminish'd — on his oath he thoughjt;, 
And not with seven alone, but twenty fought ; 
Numbers prevailed, and desperate grew the 8trifc> 
No more for victory, nor even for life ; 
Now every blow the fainting warrior gave 
Was but to gain companions to the grave* 

From many a purple wound, life ebbing fast, 
Whisper'd this fatal hour must be his last ; . 
The blood, retreating, slumber'd round the heart. 
From the chill hand the faithful sword must part I 
Night spread her pall before his closing eyes. 
He sunk, as one who never more might rise I 
Madden'd by sight of comrades stretch'd below> 
Cruel had been the mercies of the foe. 
But, by loud sounds of sylvan warfare scared^ 
They fled — and in their haste, the stripling 8par^« 

Hurf ah > like whirlwind o'er the boundless plaici 
Come rushing to the spot a hunter train. 
Outstripping falcon's night, and staghound's speedy 
Rode foremost, on a tiger-spotted steed. 
With bow and quiver arm'd, in greenwood guise^ 
Rose on her cheek, and daylight in her eyes, 
A lovely female form, too soft, too young 
For Dian's — ^as her half-wild courser sprung 
In terror from the fancied corse,— -one bound 
Brought the light fearless rider to the ground. 

Not Dian's self, as o'er the slumb'rer charm'dj 
On Latmos' peak the goddess hung alarm'd 
By her pale crescent, saw with streaming eye> 
A form more lovely, or more deathlike lie ! 
He lay, as stately oak in northern wood. 
Prostrate 'mid saplings-^matchless even in blood ! 

Her trembling hand was to his heart applied. 

She bound the gushing wounds his vest that dyedi 

Then bade her vassals to her home convey 

The form half lifeless in their arms that lay. 

Long did she watch through nature's dubious strife> 

Hang o'er the couch where hover'd death and life. 

As if in that bright Greciaii land of song, ' 

(That land, whose sun, alas ! has^set so long,) 
Vol. XIX. f A 



U6 AxeL |?raL 

A wild rose rear'd its fond and fragile tre^ 
O'er the fall'ii statue oif a Hercules ! — 

He wakes ! but ah ! that eye that beam'd.so miM> 
Roams round the chamber in delirium wild. 
" Where am I ?— damsel ! hie thee hence, and flee ! 
No eye of woman must even look on me. 
I am King Charles's — and no tear of thine 
Must pour its balsam into wound of mine. 
From the cold grave, where sleeps my father now. 
He frowns upon me, and records my vow ! 
Hence, bright temptation ! Sorceress, away \ 
My sword, my belt, my letter, where are they ? 
Give me my father's sword, whose deadly bite 
Was ever fatal to the Muscovite ;— 
How gladly did its shining sickle mow. 
To-day, the bloody harvest? of the foe ! — 
Oh ! had my King been witness to the deed ! 
But how is this ? methinks myself I bleed. 
Let me to Stockholm — ^give the precious scroll. 
On which lies pledged the honour of my soul ; 
Moments are precious ; up ! and let me ride !"-** 
Thus, in wild fever's paroxysm, cried 
War's dauntless nursling, — then in speechless pain 
Upon his friendly pillow sunk again. 
At length, glad umpire in the lingering strife. 
Youth gave the palm of victory — to Life ! 
*Mid the fond leisure slow recovery lent. 
How many a speechless glance the rescued bent 
On that bright ci*eature of an Eastern sky. 
But for whose cares he had been doom'd to die ! 

This was no fair but melancholy maid, 
(Such as might haunt a northern greenwood shade ; 
Such as might grace a northern poet's lay ; 
Her locks bright beaming with the gold of day ; 
Her cheek just tinged with evening primrose hue. 
And eyes where sat Forget-me-not's deep blue ;) 
Eastern she was in feature, form, and air, 
Dai'k lay the masses of her raven hair. 
At times reposing on her cheek's rich red. 
Like midnight slumbering on a rosy bed ! 
Bright glow'd her forehead with that freshest ray 
Aurora wears when leading on the day ; 
Her step was that of fabled Oread, 
So unconfined, so dancing, and so glad ; 
High beat the youthful bosom's silver wave 
With joys that youth and health spontaneous gave ; 
Her soul, a summer heav'n, like it was bright 
With flowers, with perfume, melody, and light I 
In her dark eye celestial fire oft strove 
With earth-born sweetness, stol'n from Venus* dove. 

O Axel I since on wounds received in war 
Time laid his hand, and left thee scarce a scar. 



1896.;] J*€L I9i 

Since all forgottenr was the external smarts 

Fond dreamer^ say^ how fares it with thy heart ? 

Less fatal were to thee the Turkish brandy 

Or Russian carbine^ than that milkwhite hand 

That bound thine woitnds— 'twere safer for thine ear 

Pultowa's thunders once again to hear, 

Than those fresh rosy lips, which only part. 

To whisper hopes delusive to thine heart. 

When in the grove thou'dst fly the noontide heat. 

Stay on thy faithful sword thy trembling feet. 

And that round snowy arm for ever shun. 

Where Love himself might rest — and be undone. 

Oh, Love ! thou wonder both of earth and sky ! 

Whisper of more than earth's felicity ! 

Refreshing zephyr of celestial breath. 

Sweeping along this thirsty vale of death ! 

Thou heart in nature's breast ! thou healing rill. 

Whence peace and hope for gods and men distil I 

Even in the boundless ocean's blue abyss. 

Drop clings to drop, with instinct's wondrous kiss ; 

From pole to pole, the planets in the sky 

Weave bridal dance around the world's bright eye.-^ 

Thou shinest upon man like twilight ray. 

Or pale reflection of some brighter day 

Of Messed infancy ; whose pastimes free. 

Beneath heaven's silver-fretted canopy^ 

Claim'd kindred with a bright-wing d cherub train, 

And, lisping, join'd in heaven's seraphic strain ! 

Alas ! how oft, since first he fell to earth. 

Is Love unmindful of his heavenly birth ! 

Yet there are moments when his upward eye 

Explores, with wistful glance, his native sky ; 

When, 'mid life's tumult, on his ravish'd ears 

Steals once again the music of the spheres; 

Like that resistless melody which fills 

The Switzer's soul with memory of his hills. 

It was the evening. In the glowing west 
The waves lay dreaming on theur bed of rest ; 
The stars, like Egypt's priests in solemn rite. 
Led on the silent mysteries of night; 
Earth lay beneath their silver flood so fair. 
She seem'd a happy bride,— her raven hair 
With nuptial wreaths entwining, and a smile 
And blush contending on her cheek the while. 
Exhausted with the playful toils of day, z 

In grots the Naiads meditating lay ; 
While the last glowing tints of evening drest 
In brighter hues the roses on their breast. 
Each little Love that, in the solar blaze. 
Lay sadly bound, now on the lunar rays. 
With bow and quiver arm'd, was riding free 
O'er a wide world, where all was glad as he ; 



^ ^-«7 



llirough many aiiNardi of woodkiid triumph cast;. 
Where Spring's blest footsteps had but newly pest. 
Now Nature seem'd to hold her pastoral hour, 
Delighted> in her own sequest^'d bower ; 
So ftill of life, and yet so stiUy sweet. 
Her yery heart was almost heajd.to beat ! 

The pair eiichanted walk'd ; and, as they ranged. 
In bridal pledge their youth's fond tale exchan^^. 
He told, how childhooa's happy moments flew. 
When, in his mother's fostering care, he grew 
In the far north ; where, from the forest bew'd. 
Stood, 'mid its kindred pines, her dwelling rude. 
He told of that dear country, and the graye 
. . It, one by one, to all his playmates gave !— 

He told how, in the stormy winter eves. 
His soul deyour'd the Saga's mystic leaves ; 
How be would long to hear the clash of arms— - 
To taste the fiery bliss of war's alarms-*- 
To mount the giant steed that Sigurd bore 
Through flames unscath'd, to Fame's immortal shore ; 
Till flying, to relieve his throbbing breast. 
To the wild woods, he climb'd the eagle's nest,. 
And rock'd him in the northern wind, to seek 
Ease for his heart, and coolness for hi3 cheek !— 
From thence, how often did he long to sail 
On every doud that fled before the gale. 
To that bright land where Victory seem'd to wave. 
And Pame wove deathless garlands for the brave ; 
Where royal Charles (scarce numb'ring seven years more) 
Pluck'd with his sword the crowns that monarchs wore ; 
And gave, with bounty open as the day. 
The glittering baubles, valueless, away J— 
" My mother yielded ! — To the camp I flew. 
Amid its kindred atmosphere I grew ; 
And, like its steady watchflre, faithful burn'd. 
Though fame deserted, and though fortune turn'd. 
Yet still, when wandering in the soft green wood, 
I saw the winged mother rear her broo^ : 
When glad and rosy children round me play'd 
On the brook's margin, in the flowery shade, 
Then^ images of peace delicious stole 
O'er the rude warrior surface of my soul. 
Like golden ears of grain, that love to yield 
Their peaceful mantle even to battlefield — 
, Then, at her cottage door, in evening light, . 
Methought I saw a maiden form, as bright 
As those which oft in blessed dreams had come. 
And whisperd wondrous tales of love and home ; 
By day, by night alike, I see her now — 
Linda .^ the bright reality art Thou /" 

" How blest is mali !" said Linda with a sigh, • 
" Free as the wind that traverses the, sky. 



The joy of danger^ Glory's fi^y bliss. 

Earth's smiley and Heaven's aspirings^ all are His* 

But woman ! Man's pale satellite is she^ 

To light his path^ and then forgotten be ; 

The victim on Love's altar still to lie. 

While man, the brilliant flame, ascends the sky, 

" My father, whose delight was still in war. 
Fell in the distant battles of the Czar ; 
My mother's angel form, and fond caress. 
Fled like a dream of infant blessedness ; 
Alone, the desert's daughter sadly grew 
In this lone castle, 'mid a servile crew 
Of abject slaves, whom conscious meanness bade 
Worship the idol which themselves had made. 
• 111 brooks the noble spirit, and the free. 

To dwell, where all ai'ound is slavery I 

'* Say hast thou seen upon the boundless plain 
Our lovely wild steeds, guiltless of the rein ? 
Light as the fawn the desert turf they spurn. 
Brave as the hero, for the fight they burn ; 
With ears erect, Ihey snuff the danger nigh, 
A moment stand, then to the battle fly. 
Their own wild battle, where, by barbarous steel 
Ungoaded, in untutor'd ranks they wheel ! 
Blest children of the desert! Oh, how fair. 
How unconfined, how happy are ye there ! 

" Oft have I woo'd the beauteous forms to stay. 
Where my tamed Tartar bore me on their way. 
On the rein'd slave they gazed with proud disdain. 
Then bounded to their native wilds again ! 

" No more the castle's stillness might be borne ; 
Madly I woo'd the chase ; with hound and horn 
Drove the keen wolf, and savage boar, to bay. 
And rescued from the bear his trembling prey. 
Natiu'e alone, alas ! we conquer not — 
Upon the throne, as in the lowly^cot, « 

Huntress, or shepherd maid upon the hill. 
Sovereign or slave, is woman, woman still, 
A feeble vine, whose tendrils sadly fade 
If the supporting elm deny its shade. 
One who her being's half must fondly win. 
Whose every joy is born — a lovely Imin ! 
Now somewhat in my side began to beat, ' 
Which had been painful, Were it not so sweet ; 
Methought some angel wafted me on high 
To starry palaces beyond the sky. 
Then would I, wearied, fold again my wings 
Amid those lovely but neglected things 
Of earth, 'mid which my happy childhood grew* 
Ye flowcra of every scent and every hue ! 



190 Axel HMk 

THou hill of sunsiiiiiei and thoo shady grove I 
Thou crystal brook^ still murmuring songs of love. 
To me ye seem'd inanimate no more^— - 
I loved ye^ as I Ae'er had loved before-* 
Myself alone unprized — a loftier flame 
My spirit panted after— and it came/'—- 
She Mter'd— o'er her cheek averted^ spread 
Love's matchless tint, *' celestial rosy red," 
And that soft smile, which in a lover's eyes 
The half-told tale a thousand-fold supplies. 

The nightingale was singing clear and loud. 
The moon stood listening from his silver cloud. 
When, warm as life, and true as death, a kiss 
Dissolved their souls in harmony of bliss. 
The mingling breath ascended to the skies 
Like blended flames from one pure sacrifice. 
For them the world stood still, and Time had laid 
His hour-glass, all forgetful, in the shade. 
Yes ! mortal hours their courses must fulfil ; 
Rapture or agony are measured still ; 
But Death's cold kiss, and the warm kiss of Love, 
Are children of Eternity above ! — 

The blest ones i'— Earth upon her funeral pile 
Had blazed — and they unconscious stood the while; 
Its mighty bulwarks been in fragments hurl'd. 
And they not wak'd amid a falling world. 
Thus fondly lock'd together, mouth to mouth. 
Had stood these Genii of the North and South ; 
And past unheeding, even that bridge of sighs. 
That severs human bliss from Paradise I 

First came young Axel from his heaven-ward flight, ^ 
" Now ,by my soul, I swear ! — by Sweden's might ! — 
By the North's hon9ur ! — by those stars that shine 
Like bridal guests ! — ^by earth and heaven ! thou'rt mine ! 
Oh that my soul were free this blessed hour 
With thee to live or die in peaceful bow'r ! 
But ah ! the pallid spectre of a vow 
With glance r«proachfril stands between us now. 
I feel, alas ! its icy ^nger rest 
On the warm surface of my faithful breast. 
Fear not ! — this hand, which dares not break, shall loose 
The bond abhorr'd ; and when May's rosy dews 
Earth's icy fetters have alike untied. 
Axel, released, shall fly to claim his bride. — 
Farewell, my soul's far dearer part ! Till then, 
Linda, farewell I — It neV shall be again." 

By duty urged, now Axel spurr'd his way- 
Through the Czar's hostile armies ; oft by day 
Lurking in woods ; but, like the arrow's flight. 
Urging his fiery coui'ser through the night— 



AtieL 191 

Still guided by the Pole's unsettibg star. 

And the bright wheels of Charles's northern Car> 

Till, safe arriying on the Swedish strand, 

The monarch's packet reach'd its destined handw 

How fares young Linda ? Oft, in her lone halls, 
Vainly on Axel's name the sad one calls !' 
The rustling woods haye learn'd with it to sigh. 
And taught the mountain echoes to reply. . 
How oft did Fancy, self-tormentor now. 
Brood o'er the mystery of Axel's vow. 
Till, to the widow'd heart, the maddeniqg thought 
Of some fond earlier love it wildly brought. 

" Dread, northern maid ! the South's fierce rivalry : 
Earth may not hold us ; thou or 1 must die ! — 
Behind thy snow-dad hills, and frozen wave, 
1 come to seek thee ; and they shall not save— 
Peace, idle ravings ! hence, cnimeras wild ! 
Left Axel not his native land a child? 
Since then a dweller in that camp's rude scene. 
Where timid love has still a stranger been ? — 
Sat falsehood e'er on brow so proudly high ? 
Lurk'd treachery ever in that clear blue eye. 
Through whose pure depths his soul reflected lay. 
As the fre^h silver fount transmits the day ? — ^ 
What then thy vow ? Oh, does it bid thee break 
This faithful heart ? — Alas ! in vain I wake 
These native echoes ; far between us roll 

Hoarse dashing billows, restless as my soul : 

And the lone murmur of the widow a dove 
Dies in the hollow whisperings of the grove.— 

He hears me not !-^0h, let me to him fly. 

And on his faithful bosom seek reply J— 

If woman's fragile form must danger shun. 

Let me but bear a sword — and I am none. 

Oft have I play'd with death in perils past ; 

Oft, careless, staked my life upon a cast ; 

Oft have I to my gallant courser grown. 

And still unerring has mine arrow flown.— ^ 

Sure 'tis a God inspires the blest design ! — 

Oh, Axel, Axel, thou again art mine I — 

Farewell, farewell^ my father's hallow'd home, 

'Tis but to bring thee peace and bliss I roam. 

Welcome, wild War I thy eagle wings expand. 

And bear a warrior-maid to Axel's land I 

But, gentler Night ! thy veil in pity lend. 

To bear her safely to her bosom'^s friend." 

'Twas said, 'twas done ! in woman's soul of flame,* 

To will and execute, are still the same ! 

Who but a loving maiden e'er had dream'd 
Of reaching Sweden ? — who but she had deem'd 
The journey light that bade her wondering see 
The frozen confines of Czar Peter's Sea ? 



192 Axel \^Nb. 

Where the North's future Empress on her bay- 
Already like a new-born Hydra lay- 
Wreathed in the sunny sand^ one might descry 
The latent mischief in her treacherous eye ; 
The fangs already are with venom hung ; 
Already fiercely darts the cloven tongue^ 
Wanting but power, as now, to rend the spoil. 
And strew with vassal crowns the vanquished soil* 

• 

The sea with barks was studded — death they bore> 
Vengeance and flame, to Scandinavia's shore- 
Sad mission for a heart to Sweden given ! ' 
Yet did the maid, by love and madness driven. 
Strive, vainly strive, amid the helm's dark plume, 
To veil her midnight tresses' kindred gloom ; 
The all-unwonted cuirass rudely prest 
Th' indignant heavings of her snowy breast ; 
O'er a soft shoulder Grecian art might frame, 
Strangely reposed the carbine's mouth of flame ,* 
While from that cestus Grecian lays record, 
(By love himself suspended,) hung the sword ! 
A place she sought amid the hostile crew — 
Her form disguised, this scornful comment drew : 
^' Fond stripling ! to the Swedish maids thy charms 
More fatal seem, than to the foe thine arms !" 
Heluctant granted, yet at length prevailed 
Her fond entreaty — and the vessels sailed !— 
Bright glow'd the Scandinavian summer eve. 
When Sotaskar must once again receive 
Love's victim. Long tradition mark'd the place 
Where brave Hialmar lock'd in last embrace 
Fair Ingeborg — at Fame's resistless call 
The youth descended to dark Odin's hall ; 
And still fond Fancy on the rock descried 
The hovering, phantom of the widow'd bride. 

Now spread along the shores the wild alarm ; 
Vain the loud Tocsin, and the call to arm— ^ 

The land's defenders lived not, or were far ; 
And feebly rose, in mockery of war. 
Old men and children, who the banners flung 
That long in mould'ring state had idly hung. 
O'er rusty weapons, kept the halls to grace 
With stern memorials of a mightier race. 
Yet fought they, as men fight when more than life 
Hangs on the issue. Desperate grew the strife. 
When, like war's fiery angel. Axel sprung 
Into their ranks,'*and cried, with loyal tongue, 
" God and King Charles !" — A thousand voices gave 
Back the proud sh^ut ; and like one mighty wave 
At once advancing, with impetuous shock 
They swept the hostile legions from the rock. 

The land was rescued, and the Russians fled ; 

And Sweden's sole invaders— were the dead ! 

14 



•^^ 



«5 *'7' ' ' , 

Af^ Hke a Mted i»T6ii» lirbodid Vight .' 
O'er this still hM^ and the moon's glimmeriBg l^t 
Qn cones restedU-wander'd Axd mth 
Amid the riral oaring of the North. . 
In pdrs they lay united^ foe with foe !• 
Yes ! he who would not sedc in vain below 
Union, beyond the severing power of &tei 
Must seek it in the iron ^rasp of hate ; 
Love's ibndesty holiest dacip, may be entwined 
By death relentless, or a world unkind ; « 

But the fierce gripe of foemen can defy 
The mortal panes of life's last agony ! 
'Twas silence a£— when hark 1 a sound that broke 
Death's solemn stillness— surely some one spoke-— 
Some one ? ay, none but one; that voice had power 
To summon back yon blessed Cossack bower- 
It breathed his name ; it softly bade him bring 
Love's cordial to a spirit on the winff,— • 
^' Can you be Linda?— In the youth reclined 
On yonder rock, can Tmy true love find ?"— ^ 
The moon, from clouds emer^g, bade him see 
Too well, too sadly, surely--]t was Hhe ! 






Once more upon his Mthful bosom laid. 
Her fond confession sieh'd the dying maid. 
She told, that jealous fears, and wild despair. 
With one brief glance had vanish'd all in air. 
And that she should but bear to realms above 
Faith uiialloy'd, and unabated love I 
Faintly she whisper'd, '* Axel, fare thee weU, 
Ask not what brought me hither-— Love can tell. 
Already Death sits icy at my heart. 
And the long night's grey twiUght bids us part. 
. Oh ! when thus shivering on life's fearful brink. 
How do its puny cares unheeded sink I 
I came to Sweden to extort the vow, 
Whidi, had I life to hear, I would not now ; 
No ! let me read it, 'mid the records hi^. 
Of love and constancy, beyond the sky,— 
There, freed jfrom alf the clouds and mists of earth. 
Bright 'mid the stars shall shine thy stdnless worth. 
Pardon, for love's own sake, each bitter tear 
Which thou must shed o'er my untimely bier ; 
Pardon the lonely orphan, doom'd to see 
Her father, mother, brethren, all'in Thee ! 
Thou wert my all ! O, Axel, let me hear 
On the grave's brink, that Linda still is dear ; 
Thou swearest !— what could Ic^^ger life' avail ? 
Life in mine ear has poured h^r lovetiest tale. 
My Axel^ dost thou see ystni envious cloud. 
Veiling the moon with tranjntdry eihrond ? 
Ere it has vanish'd, I shall be no more : 
But my freed soul, on yon celestial shore. 
For thee a suppliant at Heaven's throne shall be. 
And, with Heaven's tbbusand eyes, stiU gaze on thee. 
Vol. XIX. « B 



i.r 



1^ Aael. [y^ 

" My Axel ! grant thy bride a SuMUh grare. 
And o'er it let a rose of India wave. 
That when the Bun's bright oflTspring in the snow 
Lies buried, thou may'st think on her below. 
Whose days of bloom were short. — See, Axel, see ! 
The cloud is past — the moon and I are free." 
Her* spirit softly fled — and Axel gave 
In Sotaskar's love-hallow'd spot — a grave ! 
Then from the floods beneath the earth, arose 
Death's younger brother. Madness ; he who goes, 
In fearful pilgrimage, the world* around. 
His scatter'd hair with Lethe's poppies crown'd : 
Now upward gazing wildly on the sky. 
Now fathoming the deep with rayless eye. 
Whose tears, o erflowing, mock the ghastly smile 
That plays around the pallid lip the while. 

. ^ This fiend on Axel seized — and night and day 
He hover'd round the spot where Linda lay ; 
Sat on the rocks, and to the waves that roll'd 
In stem derision, thus his sorrows told : — 

''Be hush'd, be hush'd, blue wave ! no more 
Beat wildly thus against the shore ! 
Thou scarest with thy boding sound 
The dreams that haunt this hallow'd ground. 
I love thee not ; — thy glistening foam 
Comes blood-polluted to my home. 
A youth lay here, and sadly bled. 
Fresh roses on his gi'ave I shed. 
Because— I will not tell thee why 
She he resembled, could not die ! 
They tell me that my love lies low. 
That flow'rs from her pure bosom grow — 
*Tis felse — my grief they only mock. 
This night she sat upon the rock — 
Pale was she, as men paint the dead. 
But 'twas the light the moonbeam shed ; 
Her lip, her cheek was cold-r-I knew 
'Twas but because the north wind blew. 
I bade my soul's beloved remain ; 
She laid ner finger on my brain — 
That brain, its leaden veil withdrawn. 
Grew light and clear, as summer dawn. 
And from the far, far East, the rays 
Brought memory bright of former days. 
Poor Axel then was blest-— there stood 
A castle in the lone green wood. 
Murder'd I lay — a thing of bliss 
Revived my spirit with a kiss. 
To me that warm fond heart she gave. 
Which now lies withering in the grave. 
'Tis past ] Ye stars in heav'n that hear. 
Be quench'd, and vanish from your sphere. 



18960 



I knew (me beauteous morbbg nttar. 
Like you it slione-^ay^ brightef hr I 
. Like you it pour'd its silver flood. 
Then sunk — ^into a sea of blood !" 

Thus pour'd he forth his plaint ; day dawning found, 
Night closing left him on the hallow'd ground. 
At length a stiflen'd corse beside the wave 
He sat^— still turning towards his Linda's grave. 
His hands in prayer were claspM — on his pale cheek 
A tear half- frozen, still of grief would speak ; 
And e'en in deaths his closing eye had tried 

To rest for ever — on his Russian bride ! 

- 

2'ECTDaES O'S PRANDIOLOOY. 
BY ABRAHAM SFOON^ M.D. F.a.8. L. AND EDIK. 

Taken in Shori^Iiand by a Oenileman of the Press* 

** DINNER, n, S. THE CHIEF MEAL." 

Johnson's Dictionary,^ 
Lecture L 



19« 



Gentlemen^ 

There is no concern of life — (if all 
the world would tell the truth) — there 
is really no subject of anticipation, of 
hope, of desire, of anxiety, so univer- 
sally engrossing — there is nothing we 
should tare so ill without, nothing we 
should so deprecate the want of, as — 
Dinner. Where, when, and how he 
shall dine, are not matters of light in- 
terest to any one duly impressed with 
a sense of the importance of the sub- 
ject ; and who is not ? I speak not to 
those, I know, who are callous upon a 
matter of such intense interest, and I 
claim their undivided attention while 
I endeavour to lay down the principles 
of a science worthy of all the consider- 
ation they can bestow upon it. 

What avails it that Macculloch holds 
forth about Political Economy to star- 
ving operatives, who, neglecting their 
business, will soon be unable to pay 
him for his prosing ? Better it would 
be for both to consider the means of 
improving their domestic economy ; 
for surely it is less germane to the mat- 
ter to know how to govern, than how 
to dine, at least to those who. Hea- 
ven grant, may never do the former, 
while they must, if possible, daily do 
the latter. 

How pitiful it is to think that the 
charlatanry of Craniology should 
have bewildered the minds of many, 
even sensible men, who used to throw 
away money to hear idle windy ha- 
rangues about bumps in their beads, 
which would have been better spent in 
creating bumps in their hungry chil- 



dren's hollow stomachs. The day of 
this humbug is, however, closed; there 
is no faith now placed in a science 
(Spirit of Bacoin ! a science ! !) which 
found benevolence largely indicated in 
the skuU of the murderer, and ho^ 
nesty in that of the thief, but account- 
ed for this by assiu'ing you that the 
bump of cruelty rose paramount in the 
one, and covetousness in the other; 
in other .words, that the manslayer 
would have been humane, if he had 
not been savage, and the plunderer a 
true man if he had not been a rogue I 

But if you want a true criterion of a 
man*s character, look at his dinners ; 
you will judge of his liberality or 
meanness, his taste or his vidgarity, 
by what you behold upon his table, 
and will estimate his worth and t^e 
consideration in which he is held in 
society — his qualities as a husband, a 
parent, or a Mend, by the demeanour 
of those you find assembled around it. 
For although the board may groan 
with embossed plateaus, and although 
the fumes of the richest viands, elabo- 
rated by the most -learned cooks, may 
ascend in exciting vapour to the noses 
of the guests, yet, if the roaster of the 
feast have a taint in his character^ 
those noses must^ if they belong not 
wholly to the bottle-nosed tribe of 
sharks, who will submit to any d^ra- 
dation for a dinner, be uplifted difr- 
cemibly in scorn of the wretch^ and 
even in contempt for themselyes, at 
submitting to the d^adation of di« 
ning with him; while, on the other 
hand, be the worthy hduaeholder ever 



l^. 



Lectures on PrUndiologif* 



tF*; 



80 poor, be his beef-steak ever so tin- shaking it had got in coming ftam tte 
gle, his whisky ever so Lowland, and grocer's, (importer of and dealer in 
his servant-lass ever so barefooted, you foreign and British wines and roirits.) 
will be sure to find the smile of friend- Ah ! gentlemen, believe me there ia 
ship playing on the countenance of much to be learned at a dinner, 
his guest, and will at once see proofs Having thus opened to you, in some 
of uie esteem felt for a man of ho- slight degree, the importance of the 
nour, albeit in distress. Even in such subject, it may be expected that I 
,SL case, there is no need for the beef- should proceed to lay down a metho^ 
steak to be tough, the tumblers or the dical arrangement of my Lectures, 
lassie's feet to be dirty ; — cleanliness. Many ditferent systems might be pur- 
and comfort, and taste, are compatible sued in delivering myself to you. I 
with, and will evince themselves in the migbt follow a historical .order, in 
.poorest situations in life; while it is which case I must obviously invert our 
equally possible for the gorgeous gran- usual mode of marshalling the meal, 
dee, wltn aU means and appliances to inasmuch as Adam and Eve were con- 
boot, to let his ignorance of those mat- versant only in desserts, while we owe 
ters appear even in the midst of his the consummation of cookery, the ek- 
splendour. I have seen, gentlemen, the auisite coup de maitre of the art. Soup, 
table of a Duke, overspread with plate (with which we begin our entertain- 
of the richest, while the handles of the ment,) only to the latest investigations 
knives were of all colours, some black, of the culmary chemist ; or, I might 
some green, and some white; the make this course of lectures foUow the 
chairs appearing as if borrowed from course of the entertainment, and so 
the nearest alehouse, and the wine not form a table of contents and a bill of 
long enough deposited in his Grace's fare all in one. As thus, 
cellar to allow it to recover from the 



Part I. Fish and soup. Appendix, 1 being, as it were, the advanced guard 
Pat^, j and skirmishers, who precede the 

PaetII. Substantials, with their ac- 5 <"■ "T body, and fianldng ttoop^ 



companiments of dressed dishes. 



Part III. The second course, with 
its soufilets, fbndus, and cheese. 



Fart IV. The dessert. 



Part V. The wine. 



This would be mighty allegorical, 
and mighty instructive to boot, per- 
haps. But I bethink me, gentlemen, 
that method is now accounted tiresome 
and intrusive. It binds down too nar- 
rowly the soaring imaginations of aspi- 
ring mechanics^ and other philosophers 
or students, and is, in brief, wholly ex- 
ploded in the world of fashion. What 
would now seem more tiresome than 
the arrangement of a sermon into heads, 
divisions, and sub-divisions^ after the 
manner of the field-preachers of old- 
en time ? What modern professor of 
law would now cramp the genius of 
Ills students or himself^ by laying down 



which next advance to the general 
engagement. 

aptly pourtraying a corps de reserve 
advancing to fill up any vacandeB 
in the main body, with light troops 
to provoke and asdault the yielding 
power of the enemy ; and lastly, 

or rear-guard, which achieves taeB- 
nal victory over the discomfited ap- 
petite, and leaving a dear field ; no- 
thing remains but 
{or bloodshed, consequent on such an 
engagement. 

a r^ular plan of that airy and fantas* 
tic study, or would foolishly reduce 
into writing that which it is so mudi 
easier to spout, " as fancy dictates or 
as chance directs ?" No ! my hungry 
hearers ! what I have got to say smiU 
be of the unfettered frisking of a fast- 
ing fancy ; and if my poor exertions 
can excite an imaginary appetite in 
one overfed bailie, or can queU for a 
moment the pangs of hunger in one 
famished operative, my brainp w31 
not have been buttered m vain. 

That the subject is one which haa 
at all times, and still does attract and 
attach the philosopher, the historian. 



1898.3 



Ledurei on Prandiolog^* 



1^7 



and, the poet> every oue^ however 
slightly he may have applied his mind 
to the study of useful knowledge, must 
be awaire. From the mighty Homer, 
whose enduring strains have influ« 
enced the literature of ages, to the 
nameless bard, whose graphic de- 
scription of Jack Horner, (the ances- 
tor of that unassuming citizen, who 
lately got into the scrape of being 
chairman to Mr Hume,) who sat in 
a corner eating his Christmas pye,^ 
(would I had one to exemplify to you 
by experiment how he) popped in 
his thumb, and pulled out a plum; 
and conscious of his own merit, far 
from calling himself a humble indivi- 
dual, unworthy of the honours done 
him, &c. &c., like some of his de- 
scendants, honestly and boldly pro- 
claimed his worth to all whom it might 
concern, exclaiming, with a stomach 
and a conscience simultaneously grati- 
fied,—" What a good boy am I V* I 



might here remurk how our education 
embraces an acquaintance with the in- 
teresting topic, from our earliest years. 
Is not the gate of knowledge opened 
with the delighted description con- 
tained in what our friend Mr Hogg 
would call that string of charming 
apothegms, beginning with. A, Apple 
pye, B bit it C, cut- it, &c. ? And 
are we not more willingly led on to 
learning by the stomach, than driven 
to it a posteriori ? But let every man 
put the question honestly to his own 
conscience, and he will freely confess 
with me, that in very truth, theasser-. 
tion with which I opened my mouth, 
and this course of lectures, is founded 
on the basis of eternal truth, and that 
there really is no one subject of sucji 
vited interest, nothing so exciting in 
expectation,' so grateful in fruition, so 
pleasing in reflection, as a good and 
substantial, or elegant and tasteful, or 
splendid and gastronomical Dinner. 



ON CANT IN DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 



MISS KELLY S LADY TEAZLE. 



I WISH some one would write a 
Dictionary of Cant. It would be a 
useful present, even to the existing 
generation, but far more valuable to 
those tkat are to follow. Nothing can 
be more certain than that without 
some such expositor, half the writings 
of the present day will be absolutely 
unintelligible to posterity. Every one 
who has at all looked into the litera- 
ture of the times, *' when Hambden 
bled in the field," must have lamented 
the utter impossibility, for the most 
part, of catching even glimpses of 
meaning. Men who, upon some sub- 
jects, displayed a force both of thought 
and of language, seldom reached by 
their descendants, seem to us, when 
they write on topics connected with the 
prevailing Cant of their day, to deal out 
stark nonsense. Whether this was oc- 
casioned most by the obscurity of the 
theme, or by the circumstance that 
they composed in a tongue (I mean 
that of the Cant Puritanical,) which 
is, to many intents and purposes, a 
dead language, I shall not now (so 
don't be alarmed, reader) waste one 
word in discussing ; but I think the 
Canters of the present day, whether 
in Ethics, or Chrsestomathics, or Poli- 
tics, or Political Economy, or Huma- 



nity, or Criticism, employ dialects, 
which, though read very easily, and 
spoken very ghbly by us, will be whol- 
ly lost to succeeding ages. 

Take the following as a sample ; it 
is from the cant of dramatic criticism ; 
one of the most prevailing, and cer- 
tainly not the least plaguing of those 
dialects. 

" Miss Kelly played Lady Teazle 
last night. The part is wholly out of 
her line. Lady Teazle has always 
been represented as a woman of fa- 
shion ; but Miss Kelly gives an air of 
rusticity to the character which the 
author never designed. They who can 
remember, or have learnt from de- 
scription, or tradition, the style of Miss 
Farrens exquisite performance of this 
part, will never reconcile their tastes 
to the innovations of Miss Kelly." 

Unluckily those ready- written dog- 
mas do their work among the public. 
The drama is a subject on which al- 
most every one thinks himself qualified 
to be a critic ; and yet the number of 
those who do not commit to others the 
charge of thinking for them, is ner- 
haps greater in this department tnan 
in any other within the whole range 
of literature. The reason is obvious. 
Each frequenter of a theatre feelathat 



IM 



On C(mi m Dramatic Critkim. 



be 18 no unimportant unit in a very 
formidable number of pitople who hare 
the privilege of passings oh whatever 
is presented for their amusement, an 
instant, summary, and final sentence. 
Audiences at playhouses are not the 
only congregations of capricious judges, 
who have confounded, in their esti- 
mate of themselves, the power to de- 
cide with the capacity to deliberate ; 
and we cannot be surprised, if, on a 
subject which surely re(juires some 
reflection, and no inconsiderable ac- 
quaintance with a very large section 
of British literature, they take their 
notions, as did the Athenians on 
weightier matters, and certain crowd- 
ed modern assemblies on matters 
weightier still, fVom a few flippant 
critics, whom they follow without 
knowing that they are led. 

It must be owned, that this will of 
necessity be^ always, to some extent, 
the lot of the far greatest number of 
the patrons of the drama. The mi- 
nority is small indeed, who form their 
opinions of its literature or its repre- 
sentation from their own study of its 
productions, rather than from the 
commentaries of the critics. It is 
right, therefore, that these latter gen- 
try should be from time to time re- 
minded, that their duty is something 
more than merely to praise or to con- 
demn ; and that common justice and 
honesty require, that fhe bread of a 
performer, or the character of an au- 
thor, shall not be sacrificed to the 
dull sport or the heedless haste of pa- 
ragraphs in the newspapers. 

These are now almost the sole vehi- 
cles of dramatic criticism. With very 
few exceptions, they talk a language 
strangely compounded of terms of art, 
confidently dealt out without measure 
or mercy, — bold appeals to general 
rules as established, concerning the 
composition or performance of the 
drama, which were never heard of, 
or probably thought of, before ; and 
short, terse, little sayings, disposing, in 
a line, of a whole act of a play, or of 
the voice— or mayhapa limb, of^ome 
unhappy actor. But there is one stri- 
king feature which is common to them 
all. They have a horror of anything 
new ; and they usually decry it for 
one or other of two of the most oppo- 
site reasons in the world ; either be- 
cause it was never ventured before, or 
because it is like something, (though 
not the same,) with which they have 



been long familiar. Thiii^ if a per* 
former appears for the flrst time, and 
displays considerable talent, «n a de- 
partment in which some old favourite 
is greatly distinguished, the delmtant 
is instantly set down as an impudent 
imitator of Mr Eean, or Mr Young, 
or Mr Macready, or Mr Kemble. 
Again, if an actress of acknowledged 
taste, great abilities, and a highly cul- 
tivated judgment, presume to give a 
new reading of a very doubtful part, 
the attempt is at once denounced as 
an innovation, to which a mrdoua 
pardon is indeed extended for tne sake 
of the popular and favourite perform- 
er, — accompanied, ^lowever, by a gen- 
tle admonition, that she ought not to 
tempt the fates by a repetition of the 
experiment. 

Mips Kelly's attempt to introduce 
novelty in the personation of Lady 
Teazle, is an opportunity not to he 
lost, of combating this besetting cant 
of the draina. It is in itself, when 
opposed in any particular instance, by 
a little argument, or a slight analysis, 
as fragile and contemptible, as any of 
those eastern jnsects which individu- 
ally may be crushed between the fin- 
gers, but which in the gross will lay 
waste a whole country. Insignificant 
as bad criticism always is, when com- 
bated in detail, its visitation is often 
a deadening blight to genius ; and I 
cannot help thinking, that it is doing 
some good service for the drama:, to 
bring to the question those objections 
which have been made to Miss Kelly's 
reading of the " School for Scandal." 

I must be allowed here to observe, 
that Mias Kelly has herself (evident- 
ly against her better judgment) given 
some colour to the caus^ of the Cant- 
ers, by the extreme timidity which 
she has expressed upon the subject* 
A day or two after her appearance in 
the part of Lady Teazle at Drury-Lane 
theatre, the following paragraph ap- 
peared in the London newspapers :— 

" MISS KELLY'S LADY TEAZLE. 

** Some of the papers having censured 
Miss Kelly for undertaking the part of 
Lady Teazlct it has been deemed an act 
of justice to communicate to us the fol- 
lowing letters ; the first addressed by that 
Lady to the Stage Manager previously to 
her consenting to undertake the charac- 
ter, and the second, subsequently to her 
performing it :— 



iftMf.;] 



Mi$$ KeUys Latfy TenU. 



« Nov. 27, 1825. 

** Deab Sir^— I read * Lady Teazle' 
last nighty and again this morning, with 
great attention ; I do not see the slight- 
est difficulty to mi/sdf in performing the 
part. My view of her character is still 
the same. She appears to me anjrthing 
but a Jine lady ; indeed, there is not a 
single line in the whole play which de- 
scribes her either as a beaut^ or an ele- 
gant woman ; but, on the contrary, as ha- 
ying been, six months before, a girl of 
limited education, and of the most home- 
ly habits. 

'* Now, if I could reconcile it to my 
^ common sense, that such a person could 
acquire the fiuhionable elegance of high 
life in so short a period, I hope it is no 
vain boast to say, that having had the 
good fortune to be received for many 
years past into society far above my rank 
in life ; and having, therefore, had the 
best opportunity of observing the* man. 
ners of the best orders, I must be a sad 
bungler in my art if 1 could not, at least, 
convey some notion of those manners in 
the personation of * Ixufy Teade C but 
this, I repeat, is contrary to my common- 
sense view of her character. Still, the 
town has been so long accustomed to 
consider her, through the representa- 
tion of Miss Farren, and all her succes- 
sors in the part, in this, and in no other 
light, that I should really tremble to at- 
tempt my simple reading of her charac- 
ter, from the dread of drawing on myself 
a severity of criticism which I have ever 
had the good fortune to escape ; and per- 
haps a censure from the public, who have 
hitherto received me with so much kind- 
ness, as considering I have never ventu- 
red beyond the limits of my humble abi- 
lities. After saying so much, I must 
leave it to the wise heads, who haVe sug- 
gested this hazard to me, to determine 
whether the business of the Theatre is 
hi such a position as to make the effort 
essential to its interests, in which case, 
and in which case alone, I could be in- 
duced, though with fear and trembling, 
hvJt ' by particular desire,* to put on fea- 
thers and white satin, and make a fool 
of myself. I am, dear sir, your obedient 
faithful servant, 

" F. M. Kelly." 
" To the Stage-Manager, Theatre Royid, 
Drury Lane.** 

Lettee^No. II^ 
** Henrietta Street^ Dec. 2. 
** Deab Sir — In my great anxiety to 
ascertain how far I Was right in my anti- 
cipation of the consequence of my ploy- 



190 

iqg Xoffy TVttrff^ I iave vaitwei t» look 
at all the papers this morning, and tlioiigli 
the generality of them are higlily flatter- 
ing and indulgent, yet there are two 
wbi(^ (as, indeed, I expected would have 
been the case with all) accuse me of foUy 
and presumption in undertaking the 
character; there appears also to have 
been a feeling (which is extremely pain- 
ful to me) that Mrs Davison has been 
displaced for my advancement to one of 
her diaraicters. Now, as I cannot tell 
them (what you told me) that Mrs Da- 
vison has given up the part, and that 
^ou have pressed me against my own 
judgment into the performance of it, I do 
hope and request that you will take the 
trouble to write a line to the Editor of 
The Mcming Herald and The New Times 
to exonerate me ftxim the charge of ha- 
ving sought to obtrude myself on the pob- 
lic in a character which is entirely out of 
my line, and which I was never ambi- 
tious to filL I am, dear sir, your obedient 
fiuthfiil servant, 

" F. M. Kelly.** 

The modesty of these letters disarms 
ill-nature, but it strengthens opposi- 
tion. It is to be regretted, that read- 
ing the character as she did, and know- 
ing as she must^ that in such a cha- 
racter as Lady Teazle, so read^ she is 
absolutely without a rival. Miss Kelly 
should have insinuated a doubt, that 
in the performance of a part, which 
in making it in some sort a new one, 
she would make in some sort her own, 
she could fail to be ultimately and 
triumphantly successful. 

To pterform a part in a favourite 
play, with a new reading, is always a 
perilous enterprize. There is preju- 
dice in favour of old associations. It 
is like presenting to us the person of 
an old friend, with his face m a mask. 
The mask may be far handsomer than 
the visage it conceals, but we do not 
look upon it with equal pleasure. It 
is therefore, necessary, not only that 
the delineation of the character by the 
poet shall be of a doubtful kind, lea- 
ving room for various reading, and 
that the new conception shaU be in 
itself natural and just, — but there is 
also needed talent of a very h^h order, 
or great popularity in the performer. 
It is fortunate for those who think 
that varieties of this sort constitute 
one of the chief charms of dramatic 
literature, and one of the qualities too 
which ^ve it a pre-eminence among 
the imitative arts, that all these cir- 



900 



Oh Cani in Dramaiic CriUcUni, 



LEeU 



cuPWitmceB combine in the attempt 
made by Miss Kelly, to give a new 
personation of Lady Teazle. 

It is one of the peculiarities (as some 
will have it one of the faults) of the 
School for Scandal, that its Ihramatis 
Persons present a constellation of ta- 
lent not to be expected in real life 
among a company, could such be found, 
which in all other respects might be 
precisely similar. Trip shares the wit 
as well as the extravagance of his mas^ 
ter. li^oses possesses, in no mean de- 
gree, the dry sententious humour of 
^^ Mr Premium." Sir Benjamin Back- 
bite, whose manners and conduct are 
those of a silly and malicious block- 
head^ has at times the conversation of 
' a polished wit. Even Maria, who is 
supposed to be little better than a 
child, is a serious and pithy moralist. 
In short, Sheridan chose to infuse (or 
what is more probable, unconsciously 
infused) into all his characters, even 
the lowest, a portion of his own fure ; 
60 that the whole resembles a set of 
brilliants, some false and some genu- 
ine, in which those of the least value 
are such good counterfeits that they 
sparkle as brightly as the purest. 

Of all the characters, however, that 
of Lady Teazle is the most remark- 
able for the inconsistency between her 
powers of dialogue and her education. 
She was " bred wholly in the coun- 
try," and ** had never known luxury 
beyond one silk gown, or dissipation 
beyond the annual gala of a race-ball." 
Six or seven months only have elapsed 
since Sir Peter found her " the daugh- 
ter of a poor country squire,"— '' sit- 
ting at her tambour, in a linen gown, 
a bunch of keys at her side, and her 
hair combed smoothly over a roll." — 
By her own confession, " her evening 
employments were to draw patterns 
for ruffles, which she had not mate- 
rials to make up, — ^play at Pope Joan 
with the curate, — read a sermon to 
her aunt Deborah, — or, perhaps, be 
stuck up at an old spinnet, and thrum 
her father to sleep after a fox-chase." 
Nay, although she stoutly denies it, 
there is much reason to believe, that 
she was sometimes ^' glad to take a 
ride out behind the butler upon the 
old docked coach-horse." Yet, after 
the short interval of half-a-year, this 
simple, rustic girl is represented as pos- 
sessmg powers of conversation which 
would lead one to suppose, that, be- 
sides being endowed with extraordi- 



nary natural talents, she had ft>r yem 
mixed as an intimate associate with 
the finest wits of the most polished 
society. 

If the whole conduct, and all the 
expressions of Lady Teazle throu^-^ 
out the play were in accordance with 
the style of her conversation in the 
far greater part of what she says, the 
actress who would personate her could 
have no option. She must be rerae- 
sented as a woman of fashion. The 
transformation supposed in such a 
character might be little short of a 
prodigy ; yet It would be a prodigy 
admitted upon the stage in deference 
to the genius which produced it, uid 
for the &ake of those delightful attnuv 
tions encompassing it, that would over« 
balance the defect arising from its gross 
improbability. But we find scattered 
up and down in the part of Lady 
Teazle many striking traits, -whicn 
make her character as doubtful a rid- 
dle, and as fair a subject for various 
readings, as any within the whole 
range of the drama. In the third or! 
fourth speech she makes on her first 
appearance upon the stage, the pout*. 
ing simplicity of the coun&y-girl seema 
to break out through all the levity oC 
her newly-assumed manners. I que8« 
tion if there be a married lady in 
May fair who would be guilty of tbs 
following sentiment: — '' Lord, I& 
Peter, am I to blame, that flowen 
don't blow in cold weather ? you miut 
blame the climate, and not me. I'm 
sure, for my part, I ivish it wcls spring 
aU the year round, and that roses grew 
under our feet /"—The whole scene in 
the third act, in which she wheedlea 
the old gentleman out of two hundred 
pounds, and joins in a resolution ne- 
ver more to auarrel, and then so warm* 
ly sustains her share in a vehement 
dispute, and at last leaves her hns* 
band half in badinage, half in anger, 
is, in almost every line, quite as well 
suited to display the character of a 
rural beauty made a coquet by mar- 
riage, as that of a pettish fine lady* 
But the admirable scene in the li- 
brary, — that part of it I mean in which 
she lends an ear, apparently not an 
unwilling one, to the oily, but most 
glaringly-palpable sophistry of Joseph 
Surface, and even once or twice an- 
swers it in a manner equally silly and 
serious,— shows, even in this vioIatUm 
of strict probability, that the author 
never contemplated the total deftni&* 



18260 ^*^ ^^^V^ 

tioD, in 80 short a iiine> of the sunpli- 
city of character impressed by Der 
country education. No one who bad 
erer '* known life," or bad put on, 
wholly, the manners and habits of 
the town, would have listened for one 
moment to the speeches of Joseph as 
arguments, unless indeed with a pre- 
disposition to comply, which would 
require no argument at all. The mere 
fact, indeed, of her having consented 
to visit a man who professed himself 
her admirer, in his own bouse, in the 
middle of the day, and under circum- 
stances of so little concealment, that, 
in addition to the prying scrutiny of 
servants, all their motions were liable 
to be watched by the " maiden lady 
of curious temper" from the opposite 
windows, — shows, that she had not 
yet learned that art of mixing caution 
with boldness of conduct, which is the 
first lesson taught by the world to a 
gay woman, on her entrance into life, 
and which is much more easily and 
speedily acquired than the graces of 
fashionable manners. 

But there is another consideration 
iliat must not be overlooked in esti- 
mating the characters of this play. 
There is nothing in the whole piece 
from wl...a we are obUged to con- 
clude, that the society in which Lady 
Teazle is supposed to move, is by any 
means a circle of high fashion. Lady 
Sneerwell is *^ the widow of a city 
knight," " wounded in the early part 
of her life by the envenomed tongue — 
of slander" as she herself terms it; 
but yet bearing, according to her own 
frank avowal, a " ruined reputation." 
Crabtree, with all his pleasantry, is 
at times coarse and vulgar ; and Sir 
Benjamin, who is evidently meant to 
be the man of fashion of the set, in 
the scene of the first act, in which he 
banters Joseph on the misfortunes of 
his brother, and in that scene of the 
last, in which he worries Sir Peter on 
the subject of his domestic troubles, 
is guilty, not so much of fashionable 
impudence, as of downright rudeness 
and ill-breeding. The truth is, that 
we are apt to form a very exaggerated 
estimate of the rank in which the 
members of the scandalous college are 
to be supposed to move, from the bril- 
liancy and point of their dialogue, and 
the elegant turn of its periods. A 
close examination of the play must, 
I think, convince any one, tha'w it is 
quite consistent with the plot to con- 

VoL. XiX. 



LadyTeoMle. 201 

sider this predous cirde of asdodates 
as composed ^f persons not wholly 
exduded from good society, but ad- 
mitted there by sufferance only, and 
rather from a fear of active malice 
than upon a footing of equality. Such 
knots of people exist at all times. 
They are felt, and they feel theni- 
selves, as intruders in the company of 
their superiors, whom they envy for 
their riches or rank, or hate for their 
virtues. With j ust enough of under- 
standing to work mischief, sufficient 
education to talk with flippancy, and 
sufficient activity of temper to need 
some employment, they mix in the 
society wnicn tolerates them, though 
they know they are the objects of dis- 
gust and scorn, and then seek to in- 
demnify themselves for their own 
conscious debasement, by ruining the 
fair fame which they can never hope 
to share. 

This is the true spirit of scandal, 
and such are ever its habitual votaries. 
And, for my part, lam inclined to place 
amidst Sheridan's highest achieve- 
ments in this unrivalled drama, the 
close intimacy which he has represent- 
ed as subsisting among the members of 
this gang of detractors, and the apparent 
distance at which they are held by the 
rest of their acquaintance. Even Jo- 
seph Surface, though for his own pur- 
poses he employs the aid of one of 
them, keeps a good deal aloof firom 
their society. It is remarkable that, 
(except i» the instance of Lady Tea- 
zle, who ridicules her own relations 
most unmercifully while she is under 
the influence of the bite of the ^ribe,) 
though they all mention the names ot 
several acquaintances, none of them 
ever alludes to any intimacy enjoyed 
out of their own set : And they are 
spoken of in various parts of the play 
by Sir Peter, by Rowley, and by Sir 
Oliver, in the fight not only of mali- 
cious, but 4)f disreputable characters. 

But perhaps the most decisive evi- 
dence, that tne original conception of 
the author corresponded with the 
reading now given by Miss Kelly to 
his play, is to be found in that curious 
piece cf literary history furnished us 
by Mr Moore in his Life of Sheridan, 
in which the whole progress of incu- 
bation is developed, from the first 
germ of the School for Scandal to its 
bursting from the shell, full-fledged, 
in ^11 its present gaudy, but nicely ad- 
justed plumage. I am far from con V 

2C 



202 



On Cant in Vramaiie Criticism. 



CF«b. 



tending, that the notions of an author 
concerning his ovin productions ought 
to be adopted as an invariable stand- 
ard for judging the plot and charac- 
ter of any works of invention. We 
have a right to deal with his perfor- 
mance, as we find it, and to decide 
upon the persons introduced as the 
agents of its design, according to their 
own conduct and language. But 
though an author must not be relied 
on as an infallible commentator upon 
his own works, he may surely be em- 
ployed as a witness entitled to some 
respect when speaking of characters 
with which he had a very early and 
a very intimate acquaintance. A pa- 
rent may be liable to partiality or mis- 
take in his opinion of the habits and 
disposition of his offspring, but he is 
tolerably good authority on such . 
points, notwithstandinpr. 

Sheridan has indeed left no express 
comments upon this part of his lite- 
rary family ; but it is clear from the 
traces which appear of their first state 
of existence, that he by no means con- 
templated making Lady Teazle a 
finished fine lady. This will appear 
from the slightest perusal of the first 
scene of the first act, as it stood in the 
poet's original rough sketch, and as it 
is quoted by Mr Moore in his chapter 
on the School for Scandal. There is, 
with abundance of wit and point, an 
air of coarseness throughout, which 
must, I think, strike any one that 
compares it with the same «ceno as it 
was afterwards fined down to its pre- 
sent admiraUe polish. Sir Peter, in- 
deed, in his soliloquy, calls his wife 
" a woman of fashion," but it is 
plainly in irony and vexation, excited 
by the contrast between her former 
mode of life and her pretensions after 
marriage. In the whole of the dia- 
logue between the old gentleman and 
his lady, he appears as little accus- 



tomed as she was, to the extravagance 
of a town life. And as to the lady 
herself, her language is in one or two 
places so little measured, that her ar- 
casms barely stop short at the ttfe 
side of abuse. Upon the whole, it is 
abundantly evident, that Sheridan in- 
tended to represent the plagues and* 
follies of an old country gentleman 
and his young country wife, coming 
to live in town for the gratification m 
the lady, with little previous know- 
ledge (on her part none) of ittf modes 
or its society ; and falung insenaiblv 
to an intimacy, dearly paid for, witn 
a small coterie, who are obliged to 
content themselves with a place in the 
outskirts of fashion. Sir Peter's con- 
versation, it is true, is that of a man 
who had once known the world; but 
he betrays his disgust and contempt 
of the frivolities of the town, in terms 
that strongly savour of the sendments 
of a man who had long retired from it 
Indeed, as to the diction, generally, 
of the whole play, it is obvious, that 
whatever was Sheridan's design r&* 
specting the principal personages, his 
execution throughout exceeded any 
conceptions he could have originally 
formed. I before alluded to the 
powers of dialogue displayed by sueh 
a pair of gentlemen as Tnp and Mo* 
ses ; and we now know that the ela- 
borate polish bestowed by the author 
upon almost every sentence of this 
comedy, was considered by himself as 
at least liable to objection, if it did not 
amount to an actual blemish. Of all 
things, therefore, it is most absurd, in 
criticising the School for Scandal, to 
form conclusions concerning the rank 
which its characters ought to be re^ 
presented as holding, by urging the 
design of the author, and inferring, 
that design from the style of dialogue 
which he decreed that those characters 
should use.* 



• Mr Moore, after the extract which he gives from the rough sketch of the play, 
containing the scene above referred to, has the following passage.—-" In comparing 
the two characters in this sketch, with what they are at present, it is impossible 
not to be struck by the signal change that they have undergone. The transformi^ 
tion of Sir Peter into a gentleman has refined, without weakening the ridicule of 
his situation ; and there is an interest created by the respect, ability, and amiable- 
ness of his sentiments, which, contrary to the effect produced in general by elderly 
gentlemen so circumstanced, makes us rejoice, at the end, that he has his young 
\*'ife all to himself. The improvement in the character of Lady Teazle is still more 
marked and successful. Instead of an ill-bred young shrew, whose readiness to do 
wrong leaves the mind in little uncertainty as to her fate, we have a lively and in- 
nocpnt, though imprudent country-gii:l, transplanted into the midst of all that can be- 
wi'der and endanger her, but with still enough of the purity of rural life about her 
heart, to keep the blight of the world from settling upon it permanently.** 



199^2 



Miu Kelly' i 



. Opposed to the fpecalatiopr here 
adyanced^ is one fact^ which^ with the 
tribe of critics already referred to^ 
seems quite decisive of the question. 
All the actresses, from Mrs Abington^ 
downwards^ who have appeared in 
Lady Teazle^ have^ it is alleged^ 
sought to represent her clothed with 
the practised and habitual graces of a 
thorough woman of fashion. The act- 
ing of Miss Fai-ren, in particular; the 
most distinguished of Mrs Abington's 
followers, is appealed to as having fix- 
ed the cast of tne character^ by a style 
of performance which so long delight- 
ed the lovers of pure and genuine co- 
medy. The fact is undoubtedly true, 
that such has hitherto been usually, 
perhaps invariably, the reading of 
L.ady Teazle. But that players, like 
lawyers, are to be bound by prece- 
dents, is strange doctrine. According 
to this school of criticism, Tif it be 
consistent with itself,) Eemble ought 
never to have played at all, since it 
was not in his nature to play exactly 
like Garrick, — Kean ought to have 
been denounced for his departure, in 
Hichard, from the example of one who 
had been for twenty years the favour- 
ite interpreter of Shakspeare, — and 
Miss O'Neill's Belvidera ought to 
have been hissed off the stage, upon 
which Siddons had wrought ner pro- 
digies in that character — prodigies the 
more wonderful, because it was a cha- 
racter almost wholly opposed to her 
own peculiar genius. 

Variety in representation is an es- 
sential attribute of the drama. That 
any two performers should play the 
same part exactly alike, is almost a 
physical impossibility. Such is the 
ambiguity, or rather the pliancy 
of language, that the same words, 
pronounced by different persons, will, 
unless they contain mere statement 
or reasoning, always affect an audience 
differently. The look and the voice, 
which can never be the same, however 
close the natural resemblance, or how- 
ever exact the imitation, must forever 
produce associations in the spectator 
and listoner, corresponding to the differ- 
ence in what is seen and heard. Mun- 
den's reading of Sir Peter Teazle was 
the same with that of Mr W. Farren, 
yet no two performances can be more 
distinct than theirs of that character. 
Indeed, this diversity is one of the 
principal charms of dramatic repre- 
sentation. We witness the acting of , 



Ladf/ Tumle. 203 

difibrent.perlbrmerB ia a favourite part 
with feelings somewhat similar to those 
with which we visit a favourite land- 
scape at different seasons. In spring, 
in summer, and in autumn, — on sunny 
and on gloomy days, — ^Nature puts on 
different dresses ; still she is aUera el 
eadem — ^her aspect changes, but ^e is 
still the same. And we woidd be rob- 
bed of half the pleasure which the 
drama affords us, were it possible for 
some stiff pedantic rules to gain sway 
in its representation, prohibiting aU 
departurefrom some established stand- 
ara — (something like the brass gallon 
of the Commissioners under the new 
Act for regulating weights and mea- 
sures) — fbang the meaning of every 
character in every play, and prescri- 
bing the looks, the tones, and the ges- 
tures, without which the performance 
must be adjudged counterfeit. 

But, besides all this, two very suf- 
ficient reasons may be given why Lady 
Teazle has been nitherto represented 
as a fine lad^. In the first place, the 
talents requisite for giving to the part 
that mixture of quidities for which I 
have contended, are much more rare 
than those which enable an actress to 
personate a mere wayward woman of 
fashion. And, in the next place^ what- 
ever may have been the cause of it, so 
the fact has been, that all the actresses 
of note who have appeared in this cha- 
racter, were distinguished performers 
in that line of acting to which the part 
of Lady Teazle has been usually sup- 
posed to belong. They were all, in 
their days, the most remarkable fine 
ladies of the stage. In playing the part 
according to any other reading, they 
would have risked their reputation, 
by encountering a difficulty which 
their habitual style of performance by 
no means fitted them for surmount-, 
ing ; and it is no offence, I hope, to- 
wards such of them as survive, to say, 
that to resign the eclat of being for 
three hours admired by three thou- 
sand people, as exhibiting a finished 
pattern of the manners of the haut toti, 
would be a self-denial so enormous, as 
no woman, and certainly no actress, 
could in fairness be expected to practise. 

And now, before I conclude, let me 
be indulged with addressing a word or 
two upon the difficulties to which Miss 
Kelly s reading of the School for Scan- 
dal subjects Lady Teazle's represent- 
ative, and upon those rare endow- 
ments which Miss Kelly herself pos- 



»ri 



a* Caai m Dr^amUie CHUdsm. 



CPlk 



Ar adbienag what Ae voikr- 
took. Tike dianacn of women, in 
eooMd J, as tbej art fa leaf ninne- 
rooty 10 alio are tfaejiar lea divenified 
than tfaoae of men. I speak here of 
the joanger part of the sex, as repre- 
lented in the diama. Tbej are oom- 
poaed duefiT of two claaKt,— one com- 
prisnc wooien of fashion, varying, 
mdec^ as to their iudivid-ial charac- 
ters, aeeonUng to the peculiar Tirtoes, 
faaHum^ intrigoea, and sentiments, 
dfaignfd fur them by their pzrent 
the anthor,— ret women of fashion 
still ;— the other class containing a 
most extensiTo assortment of arch 
waiting-m^ds, Tirtnoos peasant girls, 
qnaophistiratfd and sentimental young 
ladies, hrong^t up in the country, or 
confined within a limited circle, by 
some Tinegar old aunt, or iron old 
uncle in town, and so on. But there 
is an intermediate class, partaking the 
qualities of both the former, in vhich 
art is blended with nature, and in 
whidi there is a psrpetual confiict be- 
tween- the manners of society, to which 
the individual is obliged, from e.luca- 
tion and example, and even habit, to 
conform, and those native emotions, 
or peculiarities of temper, which oc- 
casiODally burst their way through all 
artificial restraints. Such characters 
are not common in the drama, and 
they are rare in life. We see them, 
however, sometimes. Among some 
hundred women, we shall find one 
who, on ordinary occasions, seems 
in no respect difierent from others, — 
who moves about in the throng, the 
same in dress and in manners, con- 
versing on the same subjects, amused 
by the same trifles, engaged in the 
same occupations ; but, upon the 
tonchingof some hidden chord — it may 
not be of sentiment or passion, — ^it 
may be of habit or of prejudice, — ^but 
it matters little what,— shall exhibit 
certain marked and striking peculiari- 
ties, that, according to their character, 
will excite ridicule, or contempt, or 
abhorrence, or deep and pathetic inte- 
rest. Such characters as these are the 
creations which make a poet immortal. 
They arc copies from nature, taken in 
her least beaten paths, but instantly 
acknowledged as genuine representa- 
tions, — the more prized, because to see 
cither the original or the copy is a rare 
enjoyment. TIicsc, too, arc the parts, 
•^'hich, thou;;h, in proportion to their 
'^cXf uftcncst at^crnptcMl, arc most 



ranly repRMOlfid wdL 
perfawBy no two diaiactai 
quentiv ylectfd for showing off an 
tre», than Sophia in the Boad CO Rsut, 
and Lvdia Ijo^aish in the Rivah* 
To both belonzs, in no small degree^ 
that qnaliiy which I have attempted 
to describe ; and it is this whidi prin- 
cipally sustains the interest we &SL in 
them, — ^for they are in other lespe c l i 
rather common-place, have not a great 
deal to do in the jaeces to which thcv 
belong, and are not connected with 
circumstances that in themaelvea create 
much sympathy. Their great popola* 
rity usiially saves the acrreas who tries 
her fortune in them from the ordinaij 
consequences of a total failure. It 
would not be easy to point ont a walk 
in the drama in which so few have 
succeeded, or in which SDCoess, whcn^ 
attained, is more brilliant, or better re* 
warded. It is in characters of this de- 
scription that Miss Kelly displays moat 
fully, and with greatest e&et, ner ex- 
traordinary powers. Her Sophia in 
the Road to Ruin may be termed per- 
fect. There are few'perfiirmanees at 
the close of which we are so mndb in- 
clined to turn to our neighbours among 
the audience and say, '' Who would 
think, on reading that part, that so 
much could be made of it?" It has 
been sometimes questioned, whether 
the performance of a great player can 
ever be an attestation of geniua ; hot 
if genius can be displayed by an actor, 
it is then, if ever exercised, when he 
gives to his audience a conception of 
the character that he personates, whidi 
they acknowledge and admire aa just, 
but which they had themselves never 
thought of. 

The part of Lady Teaal^ under- 
stood as I have attempted to expUin 
it, is of the same class with those just 
noticed. She is neither a woman of 
fashion nor a rustic girl, but «mie« 
thing between both. She has tasted 
the poisonous sweets of dissipation, 
and they have intoxicated her senses ; 
but her heart, though approached by 
the malady, h as escaped it. She adopts 
the modes, the dress, and the obser- 
vances of a town life ; but she mnat 
retain, amid all her finery, and with aU 
her wit, some traces of the habits in 
which she has passed all but a few 
months of her existence, and which 
cannot be put off like a suit of coun- 
try-made clothes, nor'left behind when 
one steps into a carriage, like a country- 



Mis9 Kt^'sLa^ TboU. 



905 



And in out punge of tbe 
plifjF — if we ire either toieun a moral, 
or to be Toused to emotion — die must 
appev to OS as if waking from a husf 
dream, in which she has felt herself 
dothed with attributes that she detests 
and disowns. She must be seen un« 
learning in a moment, at the edge of 
the {Redpice, the false and deluding 
manners that have conducted her to it, 
aad returning to those ways of simpli- 
city undisguised, and Yirtue freed firom 
artificial follies, to which she had -been 
accustomed during her youth and child- 
hood, and from which she could not 
hare wandered, without exhibiting that 
appearance of restraint in her moTe- 
ments, which is the sure mark of an 
imperfect and ill-tutored hypocrisy. 

Such is ^liss Kelly's Lady Teazle. 
I must not abuse the courtesy of those 
readers who may hare accompanied 
me thus far, by asking them to trayel 
farther, that I may notice her admi« 
rable performance of this difficult and 
complex character. Tempting as the 
theme is, the bulk to which my chap- 
ter has already grown warns me to 
forbear. I shall merely ask this sim- 
ple question of those who deem them- 
selyes the patrons of the drama, — ^Are 
we to be denied a repetition of that 
performance ? For the present. Miss 
Kdly, or the managers, or it may be 
both, have yielded to the clamour of 
Cant, and, after two or three trials of 
the public taste, she has ceased to per- 
form Lady Teazle. I must say, I think 
this is not dealing quite fairly with the 



pablic; Sulndwit opportuni^ _, 

tainly not giTCn to tbe town, of iaaxk* 
ing a matoie and oonect judgment 
upon this departure from CBtatmshed 
(Hreoedent. As fiu*, indeed, as the seose 
of a ddighted audience, loudly and 
warmly expfi'su'd, mi^t be coosider* 
edas an eridenceof success, nothing 
ooald be more snccessfrd than the ez« 
peiiment. But tome (and onfy some) 
of the newqiapers censored and sneers 
ed, — and 3Iis8 Kelly, or (for where we 
hare no certain knowledge we must 
be cautious) the managers, or both,— 
got frightened ! 

Thoe is yet a remedy for the lo?en 
of the drama. I trust it will be m-» 
plied. It is only necessary, when fbe 
town fills, that an inquiry should be 
made, coming from one or two fiodiioii^ 
able names, — ^^ When Miss Kelly shall 
next play Lady Teazle ?" The actress 
and ue managers would soon tak^ the 
hint ; all who possess taste and discri- 
mination would assist by their pre- 
sence and applause ; a far more nume- 
rous host would follow the fashion ; 
genius, for once at least, would be 
freed from the d^rading bondage that, 
in this department, has been for some 
time setUing upon it ; and the ri^ts 
and privil^es of TheStagewtmla be 
asserted, spite of all the pert dogma- 
tism, and all the pointless flippancy of 
ALL THE Canters* 



Txmdon, January 9, 1886. 



n 



THE FRENCH GLOBE AND BLACrWOOD's MAGAZINE. 



In our December Number we made 
some remarks on the present state of 
French literature, whicn were of course 
characterized by our usual Rhadaman- 
thian impartiality. What we said, we 
do not in tbe least recollect, but have 
no doubt that it was particularly good. 
Needless is it to say, that if we cen- 
sured, we did so with our universally 
acknowledged good manners, temper- 
ing the austerity of the judge with 
the benignity of a father ; and if we 
praised, administering the bonbons of 
panegyric with the grace of Mr Am- 
brose setting down a platter of powl- 
dowdies. Such, our readers know, is 
tbe common mode of proceeding in our 
pages. 

Among other affairs, wc praised the 



French Globe, and we think we were 
not wrong. Judge, then, of our sur- 
prise, when our Parisian express ar- 
rived, containing the Number of the 
20th of December, in the year lately 
defunct, with the following article 
stuck at the bottom of it, as we have 
seen in the days of our youth a bunch 
of nettles under the tail of an other- 
wise well-behaved and most milky 
cow. 

•' Sur an artide du Black wo on BIaoa- 

ZIXE. 

Depuis que nos travaux nous ont,** &c. 

But why should we bother our read- 
ers with French ? Here, therefore, wc 
overset it into English for the benefit 
of the Cockneys, who write under the 



806 



Tlie French Ghbe and Blackwood's Magazine. D^^^ 



signature of French Viscounts^ aud 
£scu8S the literature of France. 

** Since our labours commenced^ and 
ife have begun to study the literary 
journals of Great Britain^ we have 
been frequently struci: with the tri« 
fling nature of their correspondence 
with France^ C^'^** refr's o/courxe to 
the correspondence of Beyle, and other 
such raffl with the Magazines of Co^ 
cagne,jajxd the credulity of our neigh- 
bours, with respect to communica- 
tions, which, when read in Paris, 
would make people shrug up their 
shoiUders. There is really a commerce 
of scandal going on — a trafficking of 
names and anecdotes. Our works are 
never analyzed or judged, but the men 
¥^10 have written them, — and these 
letters cannot be better compared to 
anything than to certain drawing-room 
conversations, where the most import- 
ant questions are decided by a word, 
and the most celebrated men criticised 
with impertinence. There is no de- 
sire of displaying either hterature or 
sound criticism, but solely of exciting 
curiosity by stories, or a sort of confi- 
dential communications which have 
apparently been picked up by surprise 
by slipping into literary circles. Too 
often, enemies, by employing their per- 
fidious weapons, can calumniate honest 
men, (Jwmmes Itonnites, translate it as 
you Uke,) and imprudent friends throw 
ridicule on modest labours by absurd 

eulogiums. Such may be tbe result of might give us some resemblance to the 
an article in Blackwood's Magazine for quacks whom we have blasted, and 



the next Number, said we to the Se- 
cretary, be placed under our own ejeA 
forthwith. Ay, ay ! sir, said Mq1< 
lion. 

But with this next Number came 
calmer thoughts. We perused it with 
satisfaction, and saw that the Frendi« 
men had been imposed upon, and were 
not deserving of the castigation which 
we had intended most unmercifully to 
bestow upon them. They had seen 
their error, and being, as we take it. 
Papists, had thumped their stomachic 
region, exclaiming, '^ Mea culpa, mea 
culpa, mea maxima culpa \" Here is 
what they said translated into the lan« 
guage of George the Fourth, whom 
God preserve. 

{From Le Globe of the 9fid Dec. 1825.) 
" Our last Number contained a note 
written with some rudeness, (6n(f- 
querie) on an article of BlackwootTs 
Magazine, which, in consequenee of 
some vague information, had excited 
in us serious uneasiness, {vives inquic^ 
tudes.) We had been told that much 
praise had been bestowed on the Qlobe, 
and in particular on two of its editon, 
but that some writers, whom we love, 
had been, as we may sa^, sacrificed. 
The horror we have against coteries, 
the very criminal abuse which we have 
seen made of political and literary cor- 
respondence, — the natural fear' that 
praises coming to us from beyond- 1 



December, which a friend has denoun- 
ced to us, and against which we has- 
ten to enter our protest." 

Ho ! said we, by the word of an old 
game-cock, biit that is a pretty return 
for civility. May we be rammed into. 
Queen Anne's pocket-pistol, and sput- 
tered over into Calais Green among 
the rascally rope-twisters of that ras- 
cally region, if we don't make these 
honest fellows remember us eome lit- 
tle. We do not know what is going 
on in the centre of Paris ! We who 
could tell you the tittle-tattle, chit- 
chat, gibble-gabble of the backstairs 
of the palace of Timbuctoo ! We slip in- 
to literary circles ! We who are court- 
ed wherever we go, and by common 
consent put at the head of all feasts 
where good men most do congregate. 
Punished shall the Globe be. It is de- 
cided upon. The laws of the Modes 
and the Persians never were more ir- 
revocable than this our dictum. liCt 



wish always to blast, the desire of 
guarding our Enghsh readers prompt- 
ly against false or rash decisions— 
everything, in fact, combined to give 
our remark a vivacity which the Edi- 
tor of Blackwood will easily pardon 



us. 



Certainly — ^not a doubt of it--fl#ve 
us the hand. Now you may continue. 

*' There is an uneasiness concerning 
one's honour which all elevated minds 
can comprehend, and in such a case 
the delay of a day is too long. Au 
reste, although our expressions 'onlj 
attack generally the criticisms of Bri- 
tish writers on our literature, and cast ■ 
but a vague imputation on Blackwood^s 
Magazine, yet, if we have offended, 
our reparation comes immediately." 

Say no more about it. Monsieur Le 
Globe — we forgive and forget. Fcrge* 

" We have to-day read with atten- 
tion the article in question, and can 
affirm that it contains just information 



1896.3 



ne French Otobe, ttnd 



cm the actual state of French litera« 
core, although summary, and a little 
personal, in the manner of our neigh- 
bours. — Q^c alludes to the Edinburgh 
Review, the personalities of which are a 
disgrace to the present age,'2 — LeOlobe 
is were appreciated, we may say with- 
out any mock-modesty, as it desires to 
be : it has not caused the revolution 
which has been operating in our cri- 
ticism, but it is its most striking symp- 
tom ; and if honesty, impartiality, and 
courage can claim any esteem, we can 
accept this recompense with as much 
frankness as we display in rejecting 
eulogiums which would set too high a 
value on our modest labours. We 
only regret, that, in praising one of 
our fellow-labourers, the English cri- 
tic has made unfavourable reflections 
{eiabli un rapprochement pen favor a» 
hie,) on the young and celebrated 
translator of Plato, whose eloquent 
lessons have re-animated philosopnical 
studies in France. We also can scarce- 
ly comprehend how he has forgotten 
the great work of Mons. Thiers on the 
French Revolution, when the work of 
Mons. Mignet is so well and justly ap- 
preciated; and, finally, why should 
we not blame the ratner cruel jokes 
against a voung and estimable writer, 
who has snown old Bentham the most 
delicate attentions, and who deserved, 
without doubt deserved, a different 
return from English writers ?" 

Spoony this, Mounseer ! Old Jerry 
the Bencher and we are not pot-com- 
panions ; and therefore we do not feel 
ourselves called upon to puff every- 
body who happens to stuff the intes- 
tinal canal of the ancient sage with 
Bifteck de Mouton a TAnglaise. As 
to the translator of Plato and Thiers, 
we shall speak of them hereafter. 

" This circumstance naturally leads 
us to say a word on Blackwood's Maga- 
zine. This miscellany has enjoyed, 
and still enjoys, in England a great re- 
putation. It has been for a long time 
the wittiest and most mischievous an- 
tagonist of the If highs. Droll, auda- 
cious in its pleasantries, sharp in its 
personalities, it may be considered as 
the true representative of English hu^ 
mour, {sic in orig.) and the satirical 
good sense of the Scottish. It has been 
more than once the torment of the 
grave Edinburgh Review, and has 
with success supported the Quarterly, 
too often unhappy in its political and 
literary quarrels." 

Come — that's pretty — and, consi- 



Bladkwoo(ti Magazine, 207 

•dering it is from a Frenchman^ true 
enoi^. As for the Wkighs, as Moun- 
seer pleases to call the vagabonds, we 
have pestered them a trifle, as they 
prietty well know; The Edinburgh Re- 
view we have, we flayer ourselves, tor- 
mented in the sorest of all possible ways, 
as anybody will prove to their own sa- 
tisfaction, by reflecting that we have 
driven away from writing in it some 
of the people who unwittingly be- 
came connected with it ; and have 
effectually prevented them from get- 
ting new recruits from any quarter, 
but the stinking Swiss oi the press — 
the vomit of Cockneyland. As for the 
Quarterly, we have always supported 
it, and on many occasions kept it out 
of the dirt. We are sorry to say that 
the Quarterly did not always do the 
decent thing by us« But pocas pala^ 
bras. We can fight our own bat- 
tles, caring not the tenth part of the 
most rotten fig's-end that ever dangled 
from a fig-tree for the good or ill word 
of any other periodical that flies, walks, 
or crawls. 

And this leads us back to T!ie Globe. 
There is, as everybody knows, a sort 
of dirty and scoundrel-like clamour 
against us — such a squeaking as one 
might imagine to come from a very 
second-rate and under-bred kind of 
rat-hole — to be heard every now and 
then among vermin, deserving to be al- 
together spat upon. Among the cote- 
ries where those animals congregate, 
{and which we shall break up some of 
these days witha hammer that wilt strike 
once, and strike no more,) it is laid down 
as a sort of ruled point, that we are not 
regarded by any one but the red-hot 
partizans of Toryism. Were it even so, 
we should not repent. For the milk- 
and-water men, we never had any feel- 
ing but steady and cool contempt But 
violent as we avowedly are in our po- 
litics, we are not unreasonable, and feel 
anxious for the suffrages of the good, 
or witty, or wise, of every party. We 
have obtained these at home from every 
one but the mere rascal fag-end of 
Whiggism, or the dirty off- scouring of 
the starveling periodical press ; and 
without setting any undue value on 
the above critique oi The Globe, (which 
is only one of a hundred of the same ^ 
kind,) we beg leave to ask, what fo- * 
reign periodical has ever mentioned the 
New Monthly Magazine, written, as 
many of its articles are, by folks who 
have their own reasons for living 
abroad, and who, of course, fish for 



806 



Tbi Frenek Globe and 



fixrdcn paiieg;yric ? Or who has ever 
mentioned the London, except to say 
that it was fallen into the hands of the 
Cockneys ? 

On looking over that last paragraph^ 
we find it reads as if we were in savage 
mood. Yet we are not — we are cool 
as a dog's nose in December. What we 
have said will be gall and vinegar to 
the heart of some miscreants, who will 
live henceforward in trouble^ month 
after month, trembling lest the big 
stone should come down to crush them. 
Is there any blackguard connected with 
the press whose father was caught 
shop-lifting? Is there any sneaking 
ruffian, who is the sou of a hypocrite 
swindler, that dare not account for the 
conduct of his life^ but skulks away 
when questioned? — ^We pause for a 
reply. By the word of a warrior, if 
we be vexed — if we again hear things, 
anything like what we have heard, out 
with the euckiUo. There is no reason 
that we should be insulted, without 
making the insulter smart for it — and 
where? Where ? Why, on the raw ! 
Let those for whom the above hints 
are intended take warning. We have 
the power, and we'll use it I 

So far for that. The Scotch nation 
has been abused and humbugged con- 
siderably on its propensities. A la 
bonne heure. We should be sorry that 
in these witless times any of the com- 
mon-places of wit should be cut off. 
We snould be grieved to the soul were 
the impres&iou to go forward that we 



Blackwood^s Magazine, [[P^ 

were a nation of gendemcn. We 
should call for the laist rites of reli* 
gion, if we thought anybody aeriona- 
ly styled us Modem Athenians. No, 
No, No. Sawneys we are, and Saw- 
neys will we die. We never will 
screw up our mouths to call 2Ljlae a 
Jlee — ^nor shall we ever, in the uni- 
versal d^eneracy of the times, gisre 
up whisky-toddy for sauteme, or any 
other modification of vinegar, howso- 
ever called. Therefore shall we joy 
in the vernacular proverb of " CUw 
me, Claw thee." Flatter us, and we 
flatter you. Say the civil thing, and 
you find it returned. As for the un- 
civil thing, we hope. our character it 
now too well established to make it 
necessary for us to say, that any one 
who wishes for that commodity need 
only send us a sample, to be quite 
sure of getting sometning better done 
on the same pattern, sent back In any 
quantity required, by next poet But 
tnere is no need of tnis just now. Le 
Globe, sans jest, is a capitally good 
paper, whether it praises us or not ; 
and it is the only independant publi- 
cation in Paris. The Frondeur, Fto- 
dore. Corsair, &c. are trash. Its ar- 
ticles are often very witty, and some- 
times very clever. 

As a specimen of their way of be- 
labouring an ass, we give the following 
notice of a spoon, which appeared on 
the 3d of January in The Globe. The 
author of the book reviewed seems to 
be a sort of Wicount de Tims. 



NOUVELLES LETTRES FR0VINCIALE8, 

Ou Letlres 4crites par un provincial aun de ses amis sur les affaires du tempi / 
par Vauteur de la Revue Politique de V Europe en 1825.* 

Principes segre fenint imperii arcana publicari, odioquc prosequuntur libros ubi 
ea pertractantur. 



E^i lisant cette cpigraphe des ATow- 
velles provinciales, nous nous sommes 
figure que Tauteur s'ctait devoue, 
comme il Ic dit, a la haine du pou- 
voir, pour nous rendre service en nous 
ddvoilant les arcanes des gouverne- 
ments. Helas ! nous n'avons rien ap- 
pris, et cet honnete provincial s'est 
.noque de nous. Nous sommes per- 
suades cependant, qu'il n'y a point 
mis de malice, et qu'il s'imagine avoir 



fait un livrc profond, uu liyre qui doit 
attirer sur lui I'attention de Tautorite, 
en compliant dans nos joumaux tous 
les lieux communs que les partis se 
renvoient Tun a I'autre comme des 
arguments sans replique. On dirait 
quelque prefct reforme qui, ne sachant 
que faire de son { emps, s'est mis k ^tu- 
dicr la haute olitique dans les cafi^ 
et daus les cabinets litteraires : cbarm^ 
d'une lectuie uui nourrissait son m^ 



• Bossange freres, libraires, rue de Seine, No. 12 ; et Johanneau, rue do Coq- 
Saint-Honore, No, 8. - 

10 



Tk9 French OMi tmd Bbtcktmxfs 



eontentementy il n'aunt pas pa r&isU 
€r au d^sir de noos cotmntiiiiquer ti^nt 
de belles ohoses qn'il apprenait poor 
Ut premiere fois. 

II a pris la forme epistolaire pour 
nous faire part de ses reflexions. II 
rfeconte k un provincial de ses amis ses 
conversations avec deux personnages^ 
dont Tun est initio aux myst^res de 
la congregation et de Taristocratie^ 
tandis que I'autre possMe le secret 
des liberaux. Liberal lui-meme, Tau- 
teur donne le beau rdle 4 ce dernier. 
A leur premiere entrevue^ il le sur- 

Srend au milieu d'une pit)fonde md- 
iUrtion^ ayant devant lui les jour- 
naux de Topposition. " J'etudie le pre- 
aent," lui dit son ami, " pour apprendre 
I'avenir." Apr6s quoi'ii entre en ma', 
tiere, et s'ecrie en parlant des mini- 
stres, Croient-ilsy parcequ'ils vont en 
arriere, empecker lespeuples de marcher 
en aeant ? Alors il aeroule devant son 
interlocuteur le tableau des fautes et 
des crimes de radminisiration. Ce qui 
I'irrite le plus, c'est Timpertinence de 
Taristocratie. On peut dire meme que 
c'est la seule chose qui le fache se- 
rieusemei^; 'il revient 14-dessus k 
chaque instant, et, k ses yeux, la ve- 
ritable plaie du pavs, c'est la difii- 
culte qu'eprouvent les hommes nou- 
Veaux pour entrer k la cour. Ce n'est 
pas qu il soit ennemi de la noblesse, 
oien au contraire; mais il en vou- 
drait une personnelle qui tint du prince 
seis parcbemins. Puis que , dit-il, la 
fUtture a jeU iant d*inegalitSs enire 
nous, c'est d la hi humaine d les met" 
ire en ordre, et d les ranger selon leur 
valeur. Il ne croit done pas que ce 
soit a I'opinion seule a classer les hom-« 
mes ; il lui faut une classification le* 
gale, et tout irait k merveille si la na- 
tion nouvelle etait] sure d'etre con- 
venablement partagee dans la distri- 
bution des rubans. Maisy s'ecrie-t-il 
»vec indignation, voyez-vous entrer 
dans les carrosses du roi des plebHens 
iUustres, ou des nobles sans merite? 
"Le provincial, emerveille d'une si 
haute philosophic, s'empresse d'en 
faire part a son correspondant. 

Ce correspondant en est encore 
plus emerveille que son ami. Vous 
me decouvrez, lui ^nt-il, un horizon 
qui m*etait incontm, Je marchais sur 
un sentier ctroit et obscur, et vous m'ou-^ 
vrez une voie claire et spacieuse. Voire 
liberal me parait nourri de sciences so* 
tides ; son raisomtement eitfort, etjixe 
i'attentioH. Votre royalisie est aww» 
Vol. XIX. 



M«ir. 



firi itudruH pdur un rv^aUrtei dur^ 
pour toute ce qm ekt menee^ les rayah 
istes en ginhal otU un bfevet d^eatefnp* 
Hon, 

Ce royaliste, en offet, est au moina 
aussi fort que son camarade le liberal 
dans la politique transcendante^ II 
d^ite gravement a Fhomme de pro^ 
vince des lambeaux du Memorial Co* 
iholique, de la Quotidienne et du Dra^^ 
peaublanc; et celui-ci, confondu d'adi< 
miration, s'ecrie que jamais il n'a rien 
entendu qui fut a une si grande eon* 
sequence, et (fun intcret plus ilevi* 

£n quittant son ami I'ultra, le pr(N 
vincial rencontre par hasard son autre 
ami le liberal, dans les TuilerieSj ou 
11 passe rarement, craignant d'y voir 
de trop pres livrees de la servitude* 
Ce philosophe, ennemi de la cour, de^ 
clame long-temps centre Taristocratie 
qui en occupe les entrees. Cest Id, dit- 
u, Veternal sujet de nos pkuntes,^ C'est 
ce mur d'airain que nous v&ulons ren* 
verser, cest ce chemin qui conduit au 
trdne que nous voulons nettoyer. Sva* 
vent quelques allusions au faraeux 
chene de Vincennes sous lequel nos 
rois faisaient si bonne justice, puis un 
mcNTceau d'histoire ou il enseigiie k 
son auditeur, d'apres le Journal de 
Paris, comme quoi nos princes sc sont 
toujours jetes dans les rangs de leurs 
peuples pour combattre et dompter 
I'insolente aristocratic. Ce trait d'e- 
rudition ravit le provincial. Ik tant 
d'hommes qui etudient Vhistoire, com^ 
bien peu, dit-il, savent en iirer une 
aussi solide instruction ! 

Les maximes que Thistoire foumit 
au philosophe liberal ne sont pas moins 
admirables. Suivant lui, les nations 
n'ont ni croyances, ni passions, ni w* 
lont^s, et les princes en font ce qu'U 
leur plait. Si, par exempts, Catherine 
de Medicis VeUt voulu, toute la France 
edt ^ti protestante. La destinie des 
grands peuples, dit-il, tient d. ceJU: le 
coeur d*un roi contient le monde. Les 
gowoemements font les nations. La tJte 
d'un peuple est dans la cime de son gou» 
vernement, comme la vie des afbres est 
dans- leur cime, Les nations s*agran» 
dissent sous des ministres qui sont 
grands, Ces sentences, qui s'accordent 
si bien avec nos dtemelles declamations 
en faveur du siecle et de Tirresistible 
empire de I'opinion, sont accueillies 
par le provincial avec la meme admi- 
ration que tout le reste. On voit que 
I'auteur des Nouvelles promndales b, 
pour les grands ministres et ks rois 



810 3 i Globe aud. 

qui gourernentj pour le d itisme 
un mot, un gout bien pruuonce. ii 
le temoigne dans un autre endroit de 
sa brochure. Un de ses personnages 
demande si, quand Napoleon etendait 
son bras sur TEurope, ses ministres 
venaient lui dire qu'il y avait dans I'em- 
pire des emigres, des Vendeens, des 
republicains, des Bourbonnistes ? que 
lui importait ? il n'en avait nul soin : 
ious obeissaient ; tons prenaient la pen- 
see de son govemement: tons etaient 
emportes par le mouvement qu'ii imprU 
matt. Foild regner! Le correspon- 
dant de province, dument eclaire par 
tante de belles choses, en temoigne ses 
remerciements k son ami. Vous m*avex 
envoys, lui ecrit-11, de quoi meubler 
toutes les Utes vides de nos provinces ; 
vous rnenvoyez la lumiere par fais- 
ceau, 

Voila Tabsurde fatras que les feuilles 
liberates de Paris, de Belgique, et d'Al- 
lemagne nous ont vante comme un 
ebef-d'ceuvre de politique, et que les 
journaux du parti oppose ont denonce 
k Tautorit^ comme un pamphlet dan- 
gereux. Comment la passion a-t-elle 
pu fasciner les panegyristes et les de« 
tracteurs au point de leur faire trouver 
quelque merite dans une compilation 
de declamations triviales, de lieux com- 
muns historiques d'ailleurs sans v^rite, 
de sarcasmes uses, de maximes fausses, 
le tout presente sous une forme sou- 
vent ridicule ? c'est que malheureuse- 
ment les prejuges d'une autre epoque 
8ont encore vivants parmi nous : ils y 
8ont entretenus par cette generation 
de gens a place qui voudraient nous 
faire croire que leurs intdrets sont les 
notres. Le pamphlet dont nous ve- 
nous de rendre compte est dirige tout 
entier contre Tancienne noblesse ; et 
la seule moralite qu'on en puisse tirer, 
c'est que la cour et les emplois devraient 
itre accessibles cL ious les citoyens. A 
la bonne heure ! mais fallait-il faire 
tant de bruit pour un si mince sujet ? 
Quand le pays sera-t-il delivre de 
cette manie des places qui absorbe tant 
de capacites utiles, et fait d'une na- 
tion libre un peuple de valets ? N'y 
a-t-il pas plus de profit et plus de 
dignite k traiter directement avec le 
public, au moyen d'une industrie in- 
ddpendaiite, qu*^ se trainer penible- 
ment toute sa vie dans la carriere de 
Tambition? Si les citoyens dtaient 
bien convaincus de cette vdrite, nous 
ne verrions pas tant de petites rivalites, 
tant de recriminations ridicules, tan 



ickiaools Magazine. 

de jalousies de livr^ : le pouYoir an* 
rait toujours ses amants qui le loiie*i 
raient ou le blameraient sans mesnre ; 
mais le public ne s'echauffendt paa 
pour des querelles auxquelles il se 
croirait parfaitement etranger. 

M.D. 

How then, somebody will say, did 
this very witty, and very clever, diis 
capitally goodand independant paper, 
fall into the error of abusing, even by 
the tail-end of an insinuation, the best 
of all possible Magazines ? 

My dear sir, or piadam, we shall 
answer you : Uriel the Archangel of 
the Sun could not discern the deiil 
when he came to him incog. So by 
the Globe. It was humbugged into 
printing its first article. 

And by whom ? 

There s the rub. Now you recol* 
leet that the plebeian said we knew 
nothing of what was going on in BeutIs, 
and vet we tell the greasy knave, that 
the fellow at the bottom of the whole, 
the actual caitiff, is Monsieur Feluc 
Boudin. Mr Felix Blackpudding the 
historian ! and what a historian ! Now 
Boudin had better not have quaneU 
led with us. What we intend to do. 
with him is yet unknown, but wa 
shall look at his books* Verbum sat. 
He evidently is not the 

Felix, quern faciunt aliena perioila 
cautum, 

else he would have bit off his stereo- 
raceous tongue ere he had let it say a 
word agsdnst us. He is, to be sure, 

the f 

Felix, qui.— 
— metus omnes-.. 
Subjecit pedibus— ^ 

But he vriU find that he was wnmg 
in so doing. We give him till next 
month to live. Let him make the 
most of his time. He will find that 
the race of the Tailleboudins, com* 
memorated in Rabelais, are not ex.^ 
tinct; and that we shall crack him 
across our knee as easily as the good 
Fartagruel broke his well-stuffed re« - 
lations on the same joint. In the 
meantime, we wish him the compU* 
ments of the season. 

C.N. 
The Blue Chamber, 
Jan* 1826. 

P. S. — The above is a spedmen of 
perfect good humour. 

C.N. 



•v 



19^.1 J^eeiei Ambrosianof. ItosXXm ,«rt^ 

No. XXIV. 

XPH A'EN SYMnOSIQ KTAIKONHEPINISSOMENAQN 
HAEA KOTIAAONTA KA0HMENON OINOHOTAZEIN. 

Fuoc. ap, Aih, 

[[7%w is a distich by wise old Phocylides, 

An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ; 

Meaning, "'Tis kight for good winebibbing people, 

**n0t to let the jug pace bound the board like a cripple; 

" But gaily to chat while discussing their tipple." 

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock */t*— 

And a very Jit motto to put to our JSoctes*^ 

C. N. ap, Amhr. 

Blue Parlour. 

Shepherd and Tickler. 

SHEPHERD. 

I had nae heart for't, Mr Tickler, I had nae heart for't. Yon's a grand hotel 
in Picardy, — and there can 'he nae manner o' douht that Mr Amhrose '11 suc- 
ceed in it. Yon hig letters facing doun Leith Walk will he sure to catch the 
e'en o' a' the passengers hy London smacks and steam-hoats, to say naething o' 
the mair stationary land population. Besides, the character o' the man himself, 
sae douce, civil,) and judicious. — But skill part from my right hand when I 
forget Gahriel's Road. Draw in your chair, sir. 

tickler. 

I wish the world, James, would stand still for some dozen years — till t am 
at rest. It seems as if the very earth itself were undergoing a vital change. 
Nothing is unalteral)le except the heaven ahove my head, — and even it, James, 
is hardly, methinks at times, the same as in former days or nights. There is 
not much difference in the clouds, James, but the blue sky, I must confess, is 
not quite so very very blue as it was sixty years since ; and the sun, although 
still a glorious luminary, has lost a leetle— just a leetle of his lustre. But it 
is the streets, squares, courts, closes, — Elands, houses, shops, that are all chan« 
ged— gone — swept off— razed — ^buried. 

And that is sure u reason &ir, 

To fill my glass again. 

« 

SHEPHERD. 

Ony reason's fair eneugh for that. Here's to you, sir,— the Hollands in 
this house is aye maist excellent. 

MR AMBROSE, {entering hesitatingly,) 

Gentlemen, as I understood you to say that Mr North is not tp honour this 
Tavern with his presence this evening, perhaps my son had better put off his 
recitation. 

tickler. 

Anan! 

shepherd. 

Mr Tickler is not in the secret, Ambrose. Why, Mr Tickler, Master Am- 
brose has composed a poem, which he had intended to recite to us in Picardy 
Place. It is a welcome to the Hotel. Now, as I have declared my determina<- 
tion never to desert Gabriel's Road till this house is no longer in Ambrose's 
possession, it is a pity not to hear the youth's verses ; so, if you please, though 
a little out of place, let us have them before next jug. 

TICKLER. 

Assuredly— assuredly. Show Master Ambrose in. 

{Enter Master Ambrose.) 



flHEPHB&D. 

Hoo are ye/my fine litlle fellow ? Come forward into ibe middle o' the room. 
Stretch out your right aim so-— square your shouthers—haud up your head- 
tike care o' your pronounciation— ^ p^gt, puer. 

MASTER AMBROSE. 

Though the place that once knew us wiU know us no more^ 

And splendours unwonted arise on our view^— - 
Though no fond reroemhrance past scenes could r^ore^ 
Our dearly loved parlour we stul must deplore. 

And remember the Old, while we drink to the New t * 

How oft in that parlour, so joyous and gay. 
The laurel was wreath'd with the clustering vine ; 

While the spirit of Maga held absolute sway. 

And the glorious beams of the bright god of day 
Seem'd in envious haste the fair scene to outshine ! 

Oh ! changed are the days, it may truly foe said, 

Since first we met there in our social glee. 
For a faction then ruled with a sceptre o£ lead. 
Debasing the heart, and perverting the head. 

And enthralling the land of the brave and the free ! 

That sceptre is broken-^that faction is gone,-^ 

In scorn and derision we've seen it expire. 
While the brightness of Maga has everywhere shone. 
It has blazed on the altar, and beam'd on the throne^i 

And kindled a more than Promethean fire ! 

Of our honours and glories our children may tell,"^ 

Be it ours the triumphant career to pursue, 
£ach foe of his King and his country to queU, 
The darkness of error and fraud to dispel. 

And la^gh at the dunces in Yellow and Blue ! 

We have One who will stand as he ever has stood. 

Like a tower that despises the whirlwind's rage^-— 
By time and by labour alike unsubdued. 
He will still find the wise, and the fair, and the good. 
Admiring the Wit, and revering the Sage ! 

And he who supreme in Arcadia rogns. 
With his heart-stirring Doric our meetings will cheer ; 

The pride of our mountains and emerald plains. 

The joy of our nymphs, the delight of our swains. 
Rejoicing each eye, and refreshing each ear ! 

And the Hero of many a glorious field. 

His best and his happiest hours will recall. 
The sword and the pen alike powerful to wield. 
With generous spirit disdaining to yield, ' , 

Except to the spirit that conquers us All ! 

And he who has ever, in danger and doubt. 

To his glorious cause been so loyal and true. 
Defying the Cockneys, the Whigs, and the gout. 
His lo TaiuMPHE I still boldly will shout. 

And proudly will hear it re-echoed by You ! 



The year that approaches new triwafii^ha will hring. 

Entwining new wreaiba for eai& bold loyal hrow,«»* 
And for many a year our new roo^tree wiu rii^ 
With the voice tnat is raiaed for our country and Kings 
Inspired by the thoughts that awaken it now ! 

. The days that are gone, we can never regret. 

While g^ded with honour they rise on our view ; 
And when here in our power and our pride we are met, ' 
Our dearly-loved parlour we ne'&t shall forget. 
But remember the Old, while we drink to the New ! 

TICKLER. 

Most precocious ! Pope did not write anythmg equal to it at thirteen* It beats 
the Ode to Solitude all to sticks. Are you at the New Academy, Master Am* 
brose? 

MASTER AMBROSE. 

No, sir— at the High School. 

TICKLER. 

Right. You live in the vicinity. Is it not a burning shame. Shepherd, that 
the many thousand rich and prosperous men who have been educated at the 
High Scnool, cannot — ^will not— raise a sum sufficient to build a new Edifice 
on a better site ? 

SHEPHERD. 

It disna tell weel. 

TICKLER. 

A High School there must be> as well as an Academy. Both should have 
fair play, and education will be greatly bettered by the generous rivalry. Never 
were there better masters in the High School than now — gentlemen and scho- 
lars all. One loses all patience to hear the gabble about Parthenons, forsooth, 
when about eight or ten thousand pounds is all that is wanted to buUd, on Ha« 
milton's beautiful plan, a school for the education of the sons of the citizens of 
modern Athens. Thank you. Master Ambrose.— -(£j:zY High'School Boy,) A 
fine, modest, intelligent boy ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Just uncommon. The Embro' folk I never could thoroughly understandj 
and yet I bae studied them closely in a' ranks, frae the bench to the bar> I may 
say^ from the poopit to the pozzi. They couldna' build their ain Coll^e^-they 
wunna build their ain High School ; and yet, to hear them talk o' Uieir city o' 
palaces, you would think they were all so many Lorenzoes the Magnificent* 

TICKLER, 

The English lau^ at us. Look at London— look at Liverpool. Is money ^ 
wanted for any noble purpose ? In a single day, you have hundreds of thou- 
sands. ' 

SHEPHERD. 

- Come, come — ^let us be in better humour. Is the oysters verra gude this 
season ? I shanna stir frae this chair till I hae devoored five score o' them. 
That's just my allowance on coining in frae the kintra. 

TICKLER. 

James, that is a most superb cloak. Is the clasp pure gold ? You are hke- 
an officer of Hussars — ^Hke one of the Prince's Own. Spurs too, I prot^t ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Sit closer, Mr Tickler, sit closer, man ; light your cigar, and puflTaway Hke 
a steam-engine— though ye ken I just detest smoldn' ; — for I hae a secret to 
communicate—a secret o* some pith and moment, Mr Tickler ; and I want to 
see your ^e in a* the strength o' its maist natural expression, when I am let* 
tin' you intil't.-^Fill your glass, sir. 

TICKLER. 

Don't tell it to me, James— don't tell it to me ; for the greatest ei]ti<>y>Q6nt 
I have in this life is to let out a secret— ei^ecially if it has been confided to 
me as a matter of life and death. 



914- NocUi Ambrutanosr No. XJTIK D^^Mk 

8HSPHSBD. 

Ill rin a' hazards. I maun out wi't to you ; for I hae a je had the moat 
profoun' respect for your abeelities^ and I hae a pleasure in geein' you the start 
o' the world for fonr-and-twenty hours.-— I am noo the Yeditor o* Blackwood's 
Magazine. 

TICKLER. 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! 

SHEPHEKD. 

Why^ you see, sir, they oouldna do without me. North's gettin' verra 
auld, — and, between you and me, rather doited— crabbed to the contributors, 
and-^coine hither wi' your lug — ^no verra ceevil to Ebony himsel ;-'-80 out 
comes letter upon letter to me, in Yarrow yonder, fu' o' the maist magnificent 
ofiers, — ^indeed, telling me to fix my ain terms ; and faith, just to get rid o' 
the endless fash o' letters by the carrier, I druve into toun here, in the whusky, 
through Peebles, on the Saturday o' the hard frost, and that same nighty waa . 
installed into the Yeditorship in the Sanctum Sanctorum. 

TICKLER. 

Well, James, all that Russian afikir is a joke to this. Nicholas, Constan- 
tine, and the old Mother-Empress, may go to the devil and shake themselves, 
now that you, my dear, dear Shepherd, are raised to the Scottish throne* 

SHEPHERD. , 

"Wha wad ha' thocht it, Mr Tickler — wha wad ha' thocht it — ^that day when 
I first entered the Grass-Market, wi' a' my flock afore me, and Hector youf<« 
youfin' round the Gallow-Stane— where, in days of yore, the saints—— 

TICKLER. 

Sire? 

SHEPHERD. 

Nane o' your mockin.— I'm the Editor ; and, to prove't. 111 order in— the 
Balaam-box. 

TICKLER. 

James, as you love me, open not that box. — Pandora's was a joke to it. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ha I ha ! ha ! Mr Tickler, you're feared that I'll lay my haun on yane o' your 
articles. O man, but you're a vain auld chiel ; just a bigot to your ain aoee* 
lities. But hear me, sir ; you maun compose in a mair classical style, gin you 
think o' continuing a contributor. I must not let down the character of the 
work to flatter a few feckless fumblers. Mr Ambrose — ^Mr Ambrose— the 
Balaam-box, I tell you, — I hae been ringing this half-hour for the Balaam* 
box. 

MR AMBROSE. 

Here is the Safe, sir. I observe the spider is still in the key-hole ; but as 
Mr North, God bless him, told me not to disturb him, I have given him a 
few flies daily that I found in an old bottle ; perhaps he will get out of the 
way when he feels the key. 

TICKLER. 

James, that spider awakens in my mind the most agreeable recollections* 

SHEPHERD. 

Dang your speeders. But, Mr Ambrose, where's the Monthly Budget ? 

MR AMBROSE. 

Here, sir. 

SHEPHERD {emptying the green bag on the tabled 

Here, Mr Tickler. Here's a sight for sair een, — ^materials for a dizzen 
Numbers. Arrange them by tens, — that's right ; what a show ! I'm rich 
aneuch to pay aff the national debt. Let us see, — " Absenteeism." The spee- 
der maun be disturbed, — into the Balaam-box must this article go, — Gude 
preserve us, what a weight ! I wonder what my gude auld father wad hae said^ 
had he lived to see the day, when it became a great public question, whether 
it was better or waur for a country that she should hae nae inhabitaiits ! 

TICKLER. 

Here's an essay on Popular Education. 

SHEPHERD. 

Rax't ower. Ay, ay, I see how it is,— Institutions, Mechanic Institutions. 



181W.3 NocteilMibi^naw. No. XJOT. / ' ' Hmk 

That's no the way^ in the <»diiiary oocvae o' natate^ that th^ miiid aeqnhea 
knowlec^e. As the general wetdtn and knpwledge of the oountcy inoieaifet, 
men^ in all condidons^ will of themsdyes hecosne Detter infonne^ Tl^en Uiq 
education of the young will be better attended to^*-«enerati6n after genera- 
tion diat will be tne ca8e^---till^ feenally/education wiUbe general in town and 
country^ and the nation will be -more enlightened, powerf tu> ,happy^ and free. 
But now^ they are putting the cart before the horse; and the naig will get. 
reesty^ and kick an the breeching. 

TICKLER, 

Here's a poem. 

SHEPHERD. 

Fling it into the fire;— poetry's a drog. Queen Hynde is still in her first 
edition. 

TICKLER. 

The eyil has wrought its own cure. But^ on roy honour, the yerses are 
pretty. Another version of our fayourite German song. — I'll sing them to the 
fiddle. 

fTiCKLER sings to his Cremona,) 
The Rhine ! the Rhine ! — May on thy flowing riyer 

The sun for eyer shine ! 
And on thy banks may freedom's light fade ueyer !«-* 

Be blessing on the Rhine 1 
The Rhine! ^e Rhine !— My fancy still is straying. 

To dream of Wi^efmine, 
Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing :— • 

"Be blessings- on the Rhine ! 
The Grerman knight the lance has brayely broken 

By lofty Schreckenstein ; 
The German maid the tale of loye has spoken 

Beside the flowery Rhine. 
With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is flred. 

Beside that dtream of thine ; 
The dull Batavian, on thy banks inspired, . 

Shouts, — ^Freedom ! and the Rhine !— 
And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman ?— - 

Thoufi^ Europe should combine,-— 
The fiery Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Roman, 

Found grayes bende the Siine.-^ 
Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses 

With Hochheim's sparkling ynne. 
And drink,— while Ufe, and loye, and beauty passes,-*- 

Be blessings on the Rhine I 

SHEPHERD. 

Faith, ye hae a gran' bow-hand, Mr Tickler. Ye wad be a welcome paesi 
in the kitchen o' ony farm-house in a' Scodaud, during the la^ winter nichts. 
The lasses ^^ would loup as they were daft, when ye blew ud your chanter/' 
Shame on the spinet, and the fiute, and a' instruments, but toe fiddle. 

TICKLER. 

Many and oft is the tune, James, that in my younger days I have set the 
shenherd's and fSemner's family a-dimdng,— on to the sma' hours. They would 
send out the bit herd laddie to collect we queans, — and they came all fiock« 
ing in, just a little trigger than whei^ at work, — a dean mutch, or a ribbon 
round their foreheads, — their bosoms made cosh and tidy*- 

. SHEPHERD. 

Whisht, whidit. Ony mair yerses amang the materials. Let us collec 
them a' into a heap, and aend thc«n to ihe c^^ok to singe the fools. What's 
that your glowering on. Sub ? 

TICKLER. 

Sub ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay, Sub. I create you Sub^yeditor of the Magazine. You maun correc 



Vk€ Noeki^Ambrosiana. N^ XXIF. DMf^ 

a' the ilebrew> and Chinese^ and Gennan, and Datcb, Gfecle and LmIa, mi 
Fiench and Spanish^ and Itawlian. You maun likewise help me wi' tib« pinfl^ 
and in kittle words look after the spellin\ Noo and then ye may overnairl/ 
and cut down, and transmogrify an article that's ower lang, or ower stupid ixr 
Mtrts, putting some smeddum in%— 4nd soomin' a' up wi' a soundin peroration^ 
North had nae equal at that ; and I hae kent him turn out e' his hluobis a 
short, pithy, biting article, frae a long, lank, lumbering rigmarole, taken, At i 
pinch, out the verra Balaam-box. The author wondered at his ain geniiii 
and erudition when he read it, and wad gang for a week after up and down 
the town, asking everybody he met if they had read his Ieading*article in 
Ebony. The sumph thocht he had written it himsel ! I can never hope to 
eqvul Mr North in that faculty, which in him is a gift o' nature ; bat bi a' 
things else, I am his equal, — and in sbme, dinna ye think sae, his superior ? 

' TICKLER. 

. I do. There seems to me something pretty in this little iong. To d«il it 
justioe, I must sing it. 

Tune— '^ The Sailor's Life." 
1. 
Oh ! often on the mountain's side ' 

I've sung with all a shepherd's pride. 
And Yarrow, as he roll d along. 
Bore down the burden of the song, 

A shepherd's life's the life for me, 
He tends his flock so merrily,-— 
He sings his song, and tells his tale. 
And is beloved through all the vale. 

2. 

When Summer gladdens all the scene 
With golden light, and vesture green. 
Too short appears the cheerful day. 
While thus he pours his artless lay, 

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c. 

3. 

When winter comes with sullen blast. 
And clouds and mists are gathering fast. 
He folds his plaid, and on the hill 
His blithesome song is with him still^^ 

A shepherd's life's the life for me, Sic. 

4. 
And when at eve, with guileless mirth. 
He cheers his humble, happy hearth. 
The storm without may whistle round, 
But still within the song is found—' 

A shepherd's life s the life for me, &c. 

5. 

Oh ! envy not the palace proud. 
With 1^ its gaudy, glittering crowd. 
For who woidd ever be a king. 
When on the hill-side he could sing, 

A shepherd's life's the life for me, See* 

SHEPHERD. 

Tut, tut !-— it's wersh-^wersh as a potauto without saut. The writer o' that 
sang never wore a plaid. What for wUl clever chaps, wi' a classical education-, 
aye be writin' awa at sangs about us shepherds ? Havers ! — Let Bums, and 
me, and Allan Cunningham talk o' kintra matters, under our ain charge.—- 
We'll put mair real life and love into ae line-^blins into ae word<-<»than a' 
the clauical callants that ever were at College. 

8 






I. • 



TICKfiBE. ^ y 

Well, well— here's a 'poem thai nuy as weft |^ iatOt the fire-heap at once> 
¥dthout further mspection. ' 

BRBPHXab.;' - — 

For God's sake, hand your hand, Mir Tieklef l^-^^Uima bunt that, as yoa 
houp tQ be saved ! It's my ahi Jiaiifi-writiii' — ^I ken't at a' this distance — 111 
swear til't in a coort o' jus^ I. Bnrti'that, and jfou're my Sub nae langer. 

My dear Editor^ I will sing it.' ■ '. . , . , . . . 

SHEPHERD. 

Na, you shanna singft<— I'll sing^t mysd^-though I'm as hoarse as a craw. 
Breathm' that easterly harr is as bad as snooking down into your hawse sae 
many yards o' woollen. Howsom'^ever, 111 try. And mind, nane o' your ao- 
con^paniments wi' me, either o' flddfe or vice. A second's a thing that I just 
perfectly abhor,— it seems to me — though Ihae as-^ode-anear as Miss 
Stephens hersel — and better, too,— ^tobe twa difl^ent tuiieasang at ae t in yiii 
a maist intolerable practice. Mercy me I — It's the twa EpithaKumB that I 
wrote for the young Duke o' Buccleugfa's birth-day, held at Selkirk, the S^th 
of November, 182i». . • 

Att^KUUkmnkie. 

I' 
Rejoice, ye wan and wilder'd glens. 

Ye dowie dells o' Yarrow, 
This is the day that Heaven ordains 

To banish a' your sorrow ; 
Ilk forest shaw, an' lofty law, 

Frae grief and g^oom arouse ye. 
What gars ye snood your brows jvi' siiaw^ 

An' look sae grim an' grousy ? 

8. 
What though the winter storm and flood 

Set a' your diSk a-quaking. 
An' firost an' snaw leave nonsht ava 

On your green gkns o' bnSten I - / 

Yet soon the spring, wi' bud an' flower. 

An' birds an maidens singing ; 
The bonny rainbow an* the shower. 

Shall set your braes a-ringing. 

. 3. - -i< . ■ ' 
We saw our sun set in the doud, 

For gloaming fkr too early. 
An' darkness fa' wi' eiry shroud. 

While hearts beat sad and siirly * 
But after lang an' lanesome ni j^t. 

Our mom has risen mair\dearly ; 
An' O to wan an' waefn' wkht> 

Sic blithesome mom is craeery. 

^- -4.- ■■ ■ 
This *is the day that wakes our spring, 

Our rainbow's arch returning ; 
This is the dawnin j^ sent by Heaven 

To binidli care ami moumii^. • 
O, young Buodflfuch, our kinsman true, • 

Oui' smeld, and fimi defender ; 
To thee this day our love we pay. 

Our blessings kindly render ! 
Vol. XIK. * i - :.= . gfi .. 



9t8 yottes Afnbrosiana. No. XXIV. C^ 

5. 

O, young Buccleuch, O, kind Buccleuch ! 

WTiat thousand hearts jream o'er thee ; 
What thousand hopes await thy smile^ 

And prostrate lie before* thee : 
Be thou thy Border's pride and boast. 

Like sires renown'd in story ; 
And thou shalt never want an host 

For country. King, and glory ! 

TICKLER. 

Beautiful^ James, quite beautiful ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Mr Tickler, I think, considering all things,' the situation I now occupy, my 
rank in society — and Ijie respect which I have at all times been proud to 
show you and Mrs Tickler^ that you might call me Mr Hogg, or Mr Yeditor ? 
Why always James, simple James ? 

TICKLER. 

A familiar phrase, full of affection. I insist on being called Timothy. 

' SHEPHERD. 

Weel, weel, be it so now and then. But as a general rule, let it be Mr 
Tickler, — Mr Hogg, or, which I would prefer, Mr Editor. Depend upon it, 
sir, that there is great advantage to social intercourse in the preservation of 
those mere conversational forms by which '^ table-talk" is protected from de- 
generating into a coarse or careless familiarity. 

TICKLER. 

Suppose you occasionally call me '^ Southside," and that I call you '' Mount 
Benger — " 

SHEPHERD. 

A true Scottish fashion that of calling gentlemen by the names of their e8« 
tates. Did you ever see the young Duke? You nod. Never! — He's a real 
scion of the old tree. What power that laddie has ower human happiness !— - 
He has a kingdom, and never had a king more loyal subjects. All his thou- 
sands o' farmers are proud o' him, and his executors ; and that verra pride 
gi'es them a higher character. The clan roust not disgrace the Chief. The 
" Duke" is a household word all over the Border ; — the bairns hear it every 
day ; — ^and it links us thither in a sort o' brotherhood. Curse the Radicals^ 
who would be for destroying the old aristocracy of the land ! — 

WAT o' BUCCLEUCH. — Air, Thurofs Defeat. 

Some sing with devotion 

Of feats OQ the ocean. 
And nature's broad beauties in earth and in skies ; 

Some rant of their glasses. 

And some of the lasses. 
And these are twa things we maun never. despise. 

But down with the praises 

Of lilies and daisies. 
Of posies and roses the like never grew : 

That flimsy inditing 

That poets delight in. 
They've coined for a havering half-witted crew. 

CHORUS. 

But join in my chorus. 

Ye blades o' the Forest, 
We'll lilt of our muirs and our mountains of blue ; 

And hollow for ever. 

Till a' the town shiver. 
The name of our master, yoimg Wat o* Buccleuch. 

Of Douglas and Stuart, 
We'd mony a true heart, 



^A90.|] Uodes Amtroiiana* No, XXIV* 919 

Wha stood for auld Scotland in dangers enew; 

And.Scotts wha kept order 

So lang on the Border, 
Then wha heardnae tell o' the Wats o' Boedeach ? 

Now all these old heroes, 

or helms and monteros, 
O wha wad believe that the thing could be true ; 

In lineage unblighted. 

And blood are united. 
In our noble master, young Wat o' Bucdeuch. 

Then join in my chorus, &c. 

In old days of wassail. 

Of chief and of Tassal, . ^ • . 

O these were the ages of chivalry true. 

Of rcif and of rattle. 

Of broil and of batde. 
When first our auld forefaUiers foUow'd Buccleuch. 

They got for their merit. 

What we still inherit. 
Those green tow'ring hills and low valleys of dew. 

Nor feared on their mailiiigs 

For homines or failings. 
The broad sword and shield paid the rents of Bucdeuch. 

Then join in my chorus, &c. 

From that day to this one. 

We've lived but to bless them. 
To love and to trust them as guardians true ; 

Mav Heaven nrotect then. 

And guide anu direct then. 
This stem of the gen'rous old house of Bucdeuch I 

The Wats were the callans. 

That steadied the balance. 
When strife between kinsmen and Borderers grew ; 

Then here's to our scion. 

The son of the lion. 
The Lord of the Forest, the Chief of Bucdeuch. 

* 
Chorus. 

Then join in my chorus. 

Ye lads of the Forest, 
With lilt of our muirs and our mountains of blue. 

And hallow for ever. 

Till a' the tow'rs diiver. 
The name of our Master, young Wat of Bucdeuch. 

There's a sang for you, Timothy. My blude's up. I bless Heaven I am a 
Borderer. Here s the Duke's health— here's the Kin^s health — there's North's 
health — here's your health — here's my ain health— -nere's Ebony's health^- 
here's Ambrose's health— the healths o' a' the contributors and a' the sub- ' 
scribers. That was a wully waugiit ! I haena' left a dribble in the jug. I 
wuss it mayna flee to my head — ^it s a half-mutchkin jug. 

TICKLER. 

Your eyes, James, are shining wi^ more than their usual brilliancy. But 
here it goes. {Drinks his jug.) 

SHEFHSRD. 

After all, what blessing is in this world like a rational, wdl-founded, steadfast 
friendship between twa people that hmt seen some little o' human life — fdt 
some littte o' its troubles— kept fkst bald o' a gude charac&r,and are doing %' 
they can for the benefit o' their fellow-ereatures ? The Magaidne, Mr Tickler, 
is a mighty engine, and it behoves me .to think well what I am about when, t 
net h a- working. The Cauthofic Queition ia die tvoM o* fS^«iX ^^cr^^xx:^ \AT^^ 



f90 dfoeies Ambrosianw. No. XXIV. D^A' 

mind, when I tak a comprehensiTe and pbilosoj^c view o' the hiatory and 
Cf^nstitution o' human nature. 

TICKLEB. 

I never heard you, Mr Hogg, on the Catholic Question. I trust your opi- 
nions are the tome with those of Mr North. 

SHJ^FHERD. 

Whatever my opinions are, Mr Ticlder, they are my own, and they are the 
fruit of long, lahorious, deep, and conscientious meditation. I cannot helieve, 
with Drs Southeyand Phillpotts, and other distinguished men, that the spirit 
of Catholicism is unchangeahle. Nothing human is unchangeahle. I do not, 
therefore, despair of seeing — ^no I must not say that, hut of my posterity see-, 
ing — the Catholic religion so purified and rationalized hy an unconscious Pro- 
testantism, that our Catholic hrethren may he admittol without danger to 
the fVdl enjoyment of all the rights and privil^es of British suhjects. That 
time will come, sir ; hut not in our day — ^no, not in our day. A century at 
the very least, perhaps two, must elapse hefore we can grant the hoon of Ca« 
tholic emancipation. 

TICKLER. 

Just my sentiments* 

SHEPHERD. 

No, sir, they are my own ; and farther I say, that to emancipate the Ca- 
tholics in order to destroy their religion, as is proposed many hundred times 
in the rival Journal, (hlue and yellow,) is pure idiotry. I shall, therefore, 
not suffer Catholic emancipation. 

TICKLEJl. 

What think you of Constable's Miscellany ? You wish me to speak. The idea " 
is an excellent one, entirely his own, and the speculation cannot fail of suc- 
cess. Thousands of families that cannot afibrd to buy books, as they are sold 
in their original shape, will purchase these p'etty litUe cheap periodicals, and 
many a fire-side will be enlightened. The selection of published works is ju- 
dicious, and so in general is that of subjects to be treated of. by Mr Consta- 
ble's own authors ; one most laughable exception there indeed is — History of 
Scotland, in three volumes, by William Ritchie, Esq. 

SHEPHERD. 

What the deevil !— Hitchie o' the Scotsman ? 

TICKLER. 

Why, it is rumoured, even Whigham the Quaker, when he heard of it, cried 
out, ** Risus teneatU amici ?" Our excellent friend donstable committed a sad 
blunder in this ; but he was speedijv ashamed of it, and has scored out Uie most 
insignificant of all names from his list. 

SHEPHERD. 

Scored out his name ? — And will Ritchie write three volumes of the History 
of Scotland after that^ — I never heard of such an insult Yet Mr Constable 
was in the right ; — for only think for a moment of printing 15,000 copies of 
three volumes of a History of Scotland by \yilliam Ritchie I But Mr Con- 
stable may just drap the volumes a'thegether ; for there will aye be arkind o' a 
disagreeable suspicion that Ritchie wrote them, — and that would be eneugh to 
damn the History, were it frae the pen of Dionysius Harlicamensis. 

TICKLER* 

Dionysius Harlicamensis N 

SHEPHERD. 

The same. I ken a' about him frae Tennant o' Dollar, author of Anster 
Fair. 

TICKLER. 

Here's Tennant's health, and that of John Baliol, his new tragedy. 

SHEPHERD. 

With all my heart ; but I wish people would give over writing tragedies. 
If they won't, then let them chuse tragical subjects ; let them, as Aristotle 
says in his Poetics, purge our souls by pity and terror, and not set us asleep. 
The Bridal of Lammermuir is the best, the only tragedy since Shakspeai 

TICKLER. 

Try the anchovies. I forget if you skate, Hogg ? 

3 



Le«l.;3 Jitociet Atntrohawe. Noi^XiV. i 

aH£FHf:u>i •; 
Yes^ like a flounder. I was at Duddingston Loch on the great day. Tyra, 
bands of music kept chearing the shade of King Arthur on his seat^ and gave 
a martial character to the festivities. It wai$ then> for the first time^ that I 
mounted my cloak and spurs. I had a young leddie^ you may weel guess 
that^ on ilka arm ; and it was pleasant to feel the dear timorous creturs ding- 
ing and pressing on a body's side8> every time their taes caught a bit crunkle 
on the ice^ or an embedded ohucky-stane. I thocht that between the twa 
they wad never hae gei'n ower till they had pu'd me doun on the bread o' 
my back. The mul& were just amazing^ and the furbelows past a' enu« 
meration. It was quite Polar. Then a' the ten thousand people (there could 
na' be fewer^ were in perpetual motion. Faith^ the thermometer made then^ 
do that^ for it was some fifty below zero. I ve been at mony a bonspeil^ but 
I never saw such a congregation on the ice afore. Once or twice it cracked> 
and the sound was fearsome^ — a lang^ sullen growl^ as of some monster start- 
ing out o' sleep^ and raging for prey. But the bits o' bairns just leuch^ and 
never gied ower sUding ; and the leddies^ at least my twa, just gied a kind o' 
sab^ and drew in their breathy as if they had been gaun in naked to the dooken 
on a cauld day ; and the mirth and merriment were rifer than ever. Faith, I 
did make a dinner at the Club-house. 

TICKLEB. 

Was the skating tolerable ? 

SHEFHEBD. 

No ; intolerable. Puir conceited whalps I Gin you except Mr Tory o* 
Prince's Street, wha's a handsome fallow^ and as good a skait.er as ever spread- 
eagled ; the lave a' deserved drowning. There was Henry Cowbum, like a do- 
minie, or a sticket minister, puttin' himself into a number o' attitudes, every ane 
clumsier and raair ackward than the ither, and nae doubt flatterin himself that 
he was the object o' universal admiration. The hail loch was laughing at 
him. The cretur can skate nane. Jemmy Simpson is a feckless bodie on the 
ice, and canna keep his knees straught. I couldna look at him without won- 
dering what induced the cretur to write about Waterloo. The Skatin' Club 
is indeed on its last legs. 

TICKLEB. 

Did you skate, James } 

SHEFHEBD. 

That I did, Timothy — ^but ken you hoo ? You will have seen how a' the , 
newspapers roosed the skatin' o' an offisher, that they said lived in the Castle. 
Fools ! — it was me — ^naebody but me. Ane o* my two leddies had a wig in 
her muff, geyan sair curled on the frontlet, and I pat it on the hair o" my 
head. I then drew in my mouth, puckered my cheeks, made my een look 
fierce, hung my head^ on my left shouther, put my hat to the one side, and so, 
arms a-kimbo, off I went in a figure of 8, garring the crowd part like clouds, 
and circumnavigating the frozen ocean in the space of about two minutes. 
" The curlers quat their roaring play/* and every tent cast forth its inmates, 
with a bap in the ae haun' and a gill in the ither, to behold the Offisher irae 
the Castle. The only fear I had was o' my long spurs ;— but they never got 
fankled ; and I finished with doing the 47th Proposition of Euclid, with ma- 
thematical precision. Jemmy Simpson^ half an hour before, had fallen over 
the Pons assinorum* 

TICKLER. 

Mr Editor, I fear that if in your articles you follow the spirit that guides 
*your conversation, yeu will be as personal as Mr North himself. No intru- 
sion on private character. 

SHEFHEBD. 

Private character ! If Mr James Simp^n, or Mr Henry Cockbum, or my- 
self, exhibit our figures or attitudes before ten thousand people, and cause all 
the horses in the adjacent pastures to half-die of laughter, may I not mention 
the disaster ? Were not their feats celebrated in all the newspapers ? There it 
was said that they were the most elegant and graceful of volant men. What 
if I say in the next Number of the Magazine, that they had the appearance of 
the most pitiful prigs that ever exposed themselves as public performers.^ Be- 
sides, they are by far too old for such nonsense. They are both upwards of 



NocUi Ambrosiarue. A o. XXIV^ {^FAi 

fifty^ and seem much older. At that time of life they should give their skates 
to uieir hoys. 

TICKLER. 

My dear Editor^ you are forgetting the articles. Tfie devil will he here for 

copy 

MR AMBROSE {tnterins^ 
Did you ring^ Mr North ? Beg your pardon^ did you ring> Mr Hogg ? 

SHEPHERD. 

No^ Amhrpse. But here^ — take that poetry^ and tell the cook to singe yon. 
The turkey, you know. Let us have supper precisely at twelve. 
MR AMBROSE {receiving the poetry from Tickler,') 

Might I he allowed, gentlemen, to preserve a few fragments ? English gen- 
tlemeh are always speaking of the Magazine ; and there are two very genteel 
gentlemen indeed, and excellent customers of mine, Mr Hogg,— one of them 
fiom Newcastle, and the other all the way from Leeds,—- one in the soft, and 
the other in the hard line, — who would esteem a fragment of manuscript 
from the Balaam-box an inestimable treasure. 

SHEPHERD. 

Certainly, Ambrose, certainly. Keep that little whitey-brown article ; but 
mind now you give all the rest to the kyuck. 

MR AMBROSE {inspecting it.) 
O yes, the whitey-brown article will do admirably. 

SHEPHERD. 

You think so, do you, Ambrose ? What is it about ? Pray, read it up. 

MR AMBROSE {rccites.) 
Tune—'* To all you Ladies now at Land'* 
For once in sentimental vein 

My doleful song must flow. 
For melancholy is the strain,— 

It is a song of woe ! 
Ah ! he who holds the monthly pen 
Is most accurst of mortal men I 

With a fa, la, la, &c. 

From month to month 'tis still his doom 

To drag the hopeless chain. 
For fair or foul, in mirth or gloom. 

He shares the curse of Cain ; 
It is a woful thing to see 
A sight like this among the free ! 

With a fa, la, la, &c. 

The devil comes at break of day. 

The hapless wretch to dun, — 
Oh ! 4hen the devil is to pay. 

His work is not begun ! 
With heavy heart and aching head 
He sends a hearty curse instead. 

With a fa, la, la, &c. 

But Christopher is not the man 

His failings to excuse, 
He must bestir as best he can. 

And spur his jaded muse ; 
Oh ! cheerless day and dreary night 
The endless article to write ! 

With a fa, la, la, &c. 

But ah ! when Here he blithely sits. 

How altered is his lot ! 
He clears his brow, unbends his wits,— 

His cares ^re all forgot ; 



189<I.T| if0cU$ Ambrostamas, Ho* XXZK 5133 

He Rings his song, bis buinp^ dUs^ 
And laughs at life and all its ills. 

With a fa, la, la, &q. 

SHEPHERD. 

Dog on it, if I don't believe you are the author of the Whitey-brown your- 
self, Mr Ambrose. 

AMBROSE. 

No, Mr Editor. I could not take that liberty. In Mr North's time, I did 
indeed occasionally contribute an article. The foreign gentleman is ringing 
his bell ; and, as he is very low-spirited since the death of Alexander, I must 
attend him. Pardon me, gentlemen, whisky or Hollands t 

SHEPHERD. 

Baith. What's the name of the Russian gentleman > 

AMBROSE. 

I believe, sir, it is Nebuchadnezzar. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay, ay, that is a Russian name ; for they are descended, I hear, from the 
Babylonians. {Exit Mr Ambrose.) — Mr Tickler, here's a most capital article, 
entitled <' Birds." I ken his pen the instant I see the scart o't. Naebody 
can touch aff these light, airy, buoyant, heartsome articles like him. Then 
there's aye sic a fine dash o' nature in. them — sic nice touches o' description— 
and, every now and then, a bit curious and peculiar word—just ae word and 
nae mair, that lets you into the spirit of the whole design, and makes you love 
both the writer and the written.— -Square down the edges with the paper-folder, 
and label it " Leading Article." 

TICKLER. 

I wish he was here. 

SHEPHERD. 

He's better where he is — ^for he's a triflin' creatur when he gets a bit drink; 
and then the tongue o' him never lies. — ^Birds, — Birds ! — I see he treats only o 
singing birds ; — ne maun gie us afterhend. Birds o' Prey. Jhat's a grand sub- 
ject for him.---Save us ! what he would mak o' the King o' the Vultures ! Of 
course he would breed him on Imaus. His flight is far, and he fears not fa- 
mine. He has a hideous head of his own^ — fiendlike eyes, — nostrils that woo 
the murky air, — and beak fit to dig into brain and heart. Don't forget Pro- 
metheus and his liver. Then dream of being sick in a desert-place, and of 
seeing the Vulture-King alight within ten }rards of you — folding up his wings 
very composedly — and then coming with ms horrid bald scalp close to your 
ear, and beginning to pick rather gently at your face, as if afraid to find you 
alive. You groan, — and he hobbles away, with an angry shriek, to watch you 
die. You see him whetting his beak upon a stone, and gaping wide with hun« 
ger and thirst. Horror pierces both your eye-lashes before the bird begins to 
scoop ; and you have already all the talons of both his iron feet in your 
throat. Your heart's-blood freezes ; but notwithstanding that, by and by he 
will suck it up ; and after he has gorged himself till he cannot fly, but falls 
asleep after dinner, a prodigious flock o